


Burnt Plastic, or Saving the World Instead

by wordsphoenix



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: BAMF Martin, M/M, Martin gets him to eat though, Scottish Safehouse Fic, Season 5 AU, Trans!Martin, also they go on international travels, apocalypse alternative, but NONE OF THIS SELF SACRIFICING GARBAGE, canon compliant through 159, first few chapters very John go owie, he does have arthritis though sorry, headcanon was too strong, nerdy boys being nerdy boys, not especially relevant beyond me wanting you to know that, sickfic for a while, still gotta kill e-mag, that man is not healthy, that turns into saving the world fic, then he gets better, to DEFEAT THE NASTY BOY, to find the knowledge to save the world, y'all've seen John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:06:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27020020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsphoenix/pseuds/wordsphoenix
Summary: John did not read the fake statement. They burned it. But he's still hungry, and they're still trapped, and Elias is still a problem. Averting the apocalypse doesn't mean much when someone's actively trying to start another one. There is also the small issue of John breaking his dependency on the Eye first.Long hours in the safehouse and long drives through Scotland and a very long plane ride. Martin is also done taking shit from anyone. John's reasonably certain it'll be him who deals the final blow, in the end. Look at him. He learnt a language in two days, for fuck's sake.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	1. November

**Author's Note:**

> cw for the Eye and John fighting inside John's head, suicidal ideation, thoughts of self-harm, and serious injury with the implied (not really I wouldn't) possibility of death

“I don’t know how to stop.” Sometimes it’s very hard for John to concentrate on anything but the hunger, or the promise that it would all go away if they hadn’t thrown the rest of the package in the fire-

“You already have.”

John lets out a hollow laugh. “No. And it’s my life force.”

“You’re eating.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’re breathing,” Martin says with more certainty.

John turns to look at him. “It kept me alive.”

“You’re breathing, your heart’s beating, you’re- people can be dead for twenty minutes, why can’t you be the same?”

Another hollow laugh, this one sharper. “Look at me.” He’s right. He knows he’s right. What little weight he had to lose is gone, Martin’s efforts to feed him notwithstanding. It doesn’t even feel like hunger anymore, though that’s how he describes it. It’s more like a full-body migraine, a constant throbbing ache underscored by the ceaseless chant, not at the back of his mind, anymore, but at the front: eat and it will go away take one just one down to the village people everywhere so many statements Jonah wants you to eat Elias wants you to eat imagine how much better you’ll feel if-

John kicks over the coffee table.

Martin sighs. “You know, that isn’t going to last much longer if you keep doing that.”

“We’ll get another one.” John’s entire life savings is tucked in a lockbox under their bed. They’ve hardly made a dent in the few weeks of modest meals.

“Don’t think there’s an Ikea nearby.” Martin might have said something about not destroying other peoples’ furniture, but it was theirs, now. Daisy had signed it over and had the paperwork sent onto them, house and all its contents, John had no idea how. Think it’d be a thing he’d just know, but the Eye was moving beyond impatient. It was getting angry. Withholding everything but the occasional flash of something that might end his hunger-

“D’you think Elias is coming?” John asked this about five times a day, on good days. More on bad ones.

“He knows we’re near the village, but I think it’s clear by now Daisy’s found a blind spot.”

How, John wants to ask. Stupid, you should know, you do know, just step outside, down the lane a few miles and- “She never mentioned it.”

“She never mentioned a lot of things, from what you told me.”

Ah, yes. Because John knew her so much better than Martin did. Actually true. Apart from the Eye. “We always wish we were smarter.”

“What?” Martin’s voice is not tense, or frustrated; only curious. He is used to John’s mind jumping tracks.

“When you hear a story about someone falling for something like this. Someone getting roped into an entity, or regular things, stupid investments, normal-bad things like crime. You say, well, of course, there was that trail of clues, the red flags they could have seen if they’d been paying proper attention. And you promise yourself you’ll pay attention, so that if there’s ever a risk it happens to you, you won’t fall for it. And then-”

“You didn’t fall for it, John.” Martin’s voice is tired, now. He’s said this, or something similar to it, about twice as often as John’s asked about Elias. Maybe he’s hoping to wear John down. “We figured it out in time. We stopped it.”

Hollow laugh. At first the sound made Martin flinch, but he’s become resigned to it, how often John makes it. “I’m still stuck with the Eye. Marked by them all.”

“The Eye isn’t more powerful than the rest, though, John. You have to remember that. You stopped it, they have checks and balances, it- your marks could be a good thing.”

“Not in a blind spot. I shouldn’t still be hungry here, not if that were the case.”

Martin sighs. They’ve reasoned through it together so many times. Or tried to. Much more they didn’t know than they did. Martin still sounds confident enough when he says, “Doesn’t seem like the thing you’d get out of you in a few days.”

John doesn’t say, it’s keeping me alive, Martin, if it gets out of me I’ll probably drop dead.

Except Martin somehow hears it, because he goes on, “Brain activity, John. That’s the thing you can’t get back. You had it the whole time.”

“Frankenstein’s monst-”

“You were in stasis.”

“I’m not in stasis now.”

Martin stands. “I’m going down.” He doesn’t ask if John wants to come. John hasn’t wanted to risk it in weeks, almost since they burned the false statement. “Need anything?”

John attempts a shaky smile. “I love that you ask me.”

“And I love you.” Martin locks the door behind him.

John is grateful Daisy installed a lock on the outside of the building, one that you can’t undo from inside. It didn’t make sense when they first got there, but he’s grateful for it now.

John spends a lot of time pacing, when Martin’s gone. The safehouse is surprisingly roomy, small but well-appointed, and in the endless minutes of waiting John wonders what Daisy used it for. Wondering is a new habit of his, or rather, an old one picked up again. He’d stopped having to do it for a while and despite his distant familiarity with it there’s also an accompanying painful itch, the diatribe of the Eye scraping against all the other thoughts. You wouldn’t have to wonder if you let me in.

But John’s not going to let it in. He’s going to stay locked here until he dies or-

Or what, exactly, John? Archivist? What do you think would break the dependency short of your death?

But he can’t just die. If he dies Elias will do it again. And Martin will never be safe.

So he wears the floorboards thin wondering.

Martin makes good time, like he always does, now. John doesn’t explain he couldn’t get out if he tried, that he’s far too weak to break a lock; it would only make Martin upset.

“Been thinking?” It is a little joke of Martin’s. Sometimes it makes John laugh. Other times it makes him want to scream.

He never does. “Always.”

“Anything good?” Martin crosses to the kitchenette to put away the groceries. Necessities, staples for good steady meals, probably a week of them. He usually gets John to eat twice a day, now. It used to be less, but Martin is persistent.

“Stuck in a loop.”

“We need a way to break it, then.” Martin swings a dining chair around and sits on it the wrong way. “Where are you?”

“Same places.”

“Say them out loud. It’ll help.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Say them to me.”

“No.”

Martin’s responding look stops John dead in his tracks.

John sighs. “I don’t like talking like th-”

“I won’t stop you.”

“What?”

“I won’t stop you,” Martin repeats. “Every time you mention offing yourself I stop you and you shut down. So. Clearly I’m a bit of a roadblock. I know you won’t actually do it, at least not now. And you shouldn’t feel bad about that,” Martin adds, strong and firm and how does he know what John’s thinking when John isn’t even sure? “Alright?”

“No. Yes. Sort of.”

“You want to try?”

“Yes, let me- hold on-” John tries to find an end. There isn’t one. He picks up somewhere in the middle. “The only way to stop my dependency on the Eye is my death. Which isn’t even possible short of some entity-related intervention, or some ritual, or- or something. But if I die Elias does it again. And I told you, we always think we’re smarter and we’re not, so we can’t trust the next person will be smarter. So I live. Like you said, in stasis. I’m getting weaker but if I am capable of starving it takes much longer than the human way. And I don’t think the Eye wants to give me up, anyway. Too valuable. So waiting is… fine, short of driving me mad and giving Elias more time, possibly, if we wait too long, to replace me. Except the fact I can wait at all doesn’t make sense, because I’m still the Archivist but the Eye is mad at me and it won’t-” the grating is louder, push through it “-let me forget it, I am still the Archivist. There can’t be two of us. But no one’s ever gone this far before and tried to go back, why would they, so we don’t even know if it’s possible, and even if it was I don’t know if I’d be able to extricate myself from-” John cuts off. Something. There’s something there. That’s. That’s something. Extricate himself. That's it. He’s been focusing on the wrong bits. “Yes. I don’t- but I would have to blind myself, and that might not work, if I thought it would I would’ve just done it already.” He pauses a moment, giving Martin a chance to interject, but Martin is silent. Attentive. Listening. “Yes, that isn’t- even if I could find a way to do it without bleeding out or something, find a way to stay outside Elias’s reach while I did, the risk that it wouldn’t work would-” think, think, come on, yes it’s fair of course it is after Mel-

John falls to the floor at the intensity of the Eye’s protest.

He distantly feels Martin rushing to him, calling to him, but it’s not audible, it’s too far away, fogged over and miles behind YOU ARE MINE, ARCHIVIST and the razors it tears through his brain-

“John!” Martin yells, and it is enough for his vision to return.

The eye contact keeps Martin from hitting him. John can see that Martin was ready to hit him, desperate to pull him out. God, I don’t deserve you.

“John?”

“M- I- fine,” John croaks. “M’fine.” His throat is raw, like he’d been screaming, even though he hadn’t made a sound since he fell.

Martin waits with him on the floor until the pain subsides enough for John to move again, to let Martin pull him into his abandoned chair.

“So Elias can’t see me, but it can stop me.” John hadn’t been serious about blinding himself until that moment of consideration. Call it determination or concern for practicality, but he can’t have been serious before then, or the Eye would have done that sooner.

“Can it see you?”

“The Eye?”

Martin nods.

“Well, it has to, it…” John trails off. Elias can’t see him. If he could, he’d be able to get to them, whether through the Eye or in-person, but if Elias serves the Eye then- “Hold… need a minute. Need. Write this down,” John says, and flails an arm. Once Martin has a pen and paper, he repeats Martin’s question: “Can it see me?”

Task done, Martin is at his side again. “Do you need to rest?”

John doesn’t really sleep, he doesn’t think. Just the in-between thing, that viscous restless rest you get when you can’t sleep but are determined to keep your eyes shut anyway. “Yes.” It will be something. Something. More time between him and the pain.

And it’s written down. And Martin won’t forget.

John sleeps.

He does not know how.

When he wakes he is so disoriented he forgets where he is, forgets the months of desperation and hunger and yearning, each pain unique and sharp as glass but equally difficult to bear. No hope, no statements, no Martin.

Wrong. Martin is there. Watching him. Hand resting on John’s chest. “John?”

“Martin?” Where is he? Safehouse. It all happened. You’re hungry. Not hungry. The Eye wants.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m… Did I sleep?”

“I think so. I mean I don’t- you haven’t. Before. In a long time, you told me.”

“No.”

“But just now, for- well, hours, twelve whole hours, you-”

“I slept.” John’s voice is crystallized with awe. Hope, back. That’s two out of three. “I slept.”

Realizing that it is true, even if he thought so before John confirmed it, Martin’s face begins to glow. “You slept. Human. Breathing slow and heart beating the whole time and everything.”

John sits up, mindful of how dizzy it makes him, and tries to level his mind out. The Eye still claws at the inside, but it’s not quite as bad, he thinks, as it was before. The sleep has softened the edges the tiniest bit. “I was trying to think through the loop I’m trapped in and when I decided maybe blinding myself was the way to go the Eye attacked me, and that- separate. Martin, it attacked me.” There is still a me to attack. “It didn’t attack the Archivist, it- the hunger is the Archivist. But I’m not the hunger, not really, not here, at least, or else I would just break out of here and feed it. So that means, in here, a part of me isn’t-” stabbing pain. A burst of hot white, unexpected, but short. And hope. John laughs. “Eye didn’t like that.” John doesn’t know exactly what ‘that’ is, whether he’s talking about him trying to find a way to separate himself from it or the more recent realization that some part of him must be his own for it to be able to attack him at all.

“Hey, take it easy,” Martin’s hope is enough to light the room, tempered only by the concern alongside it.

“Yes. But I have to keep thinking. I need to know what it is. What part isn’t it.” No attack at that. Does the Eye think him incapable? Probably. John doesn’t feel especially capable at the moment. “What did I write down?”

“Can it see you?” Martin’s hand is moving back and forth over John’s heart, which, after the spike of pain, is beating normally again. In all the discussion of his inhumanity he hadn’t thought to try and keep track of it before. But Martin had been the whole time.

God. “Can it see me? I... it knows I’m here, knows enough to still be connected to me somehow, but it isn’t- I think it can feel me. I think it can sense me, but it can’t see me, not completely. So I need to figure out what’s in opposition, if there’s a way I can make that stronger, and if that’ll make it possible for me to shove it out. How to defend, how to push back, push out-”

“You,” Martin says.

John blinks at him. “What?”

“It’s you. John. You said it. Not the Archivist, John.”

The Eye bristles at even Martin’s distinction, but can’t seem to do anything about it. It can only feel John, then. “Are- Martin, are you still linked to it?”

“I don’t know.”

John smiles so hard it hurts.

Martin gets the gist and hugs him, then pulls back muttering about hurting him, then hugs him again when John refuses to unwrap his arms from Martin’s back.

If anything, his eye bags are worse. But he feels hungry. Food-hungry. For the first time in recent memory. And the onslaught of human, the hope of it, is railing against the Eye’s presence so hard John can almost form an independent thought.

Almost.

“… and American pancakes, because they are good, I’m sorry, it’s true, and there’s this vegetable potato thing that’s like a crispy version of ratatouille, and then, if I can find the recipe-”

“Martin?”

“John?” He turns, breathless, smile not totally able to go out even though John’s hesitant tone was more than enough to make him worry, and oh.

John is with him. “It’s not- steady. I mean it’s good, I feel good, I feel human, but I don’t think it’s going to be straightforward.”

Martin’s eyebrows pull together with sympathy. “No. But I’m here. And we know you can do this.”

“Right,” John says, and takes a seat at the table. “Right.”

Martin is taking care of him. He is not used to being taken care of.

“What are you making?”

“Right now? Breakfast. Eggs and toast. I can make something else, if you-”

“No. That’s good. I, uh... I think that’s good. Just need to keep eating, right? Only I’m hungry again, so... yes.”

Martin is sparing more glances than necessary at him, but John isn’t sure what he can do to reassure him. Possibly nothing. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

“I’m fine, Martin. Good. Great, even, better than I’ve felt in- in a while.”

“Even with the-”

“Even with the Eye still around.”

Martin nods. “As long as you’re okay.”

After a moment, John asks, “How are you?”

Martin laughs. “How am I? John, I’m good. I’m excellent. We averted the apocalypse and you’re starting to figure out how to get rid of it, I’m- really. I’m really good.” He makes eye contact to make sure John believes him.

John vaguely recollects something about it being someone’s turn to fall apart, thinks this doesn’t really seem like his, or shouldn’t be, but makes no mention of it.

It comes in waves.

The hunger is still there, constantly, but it fades in and out like a faulty radio signal. Though it was difficult for John to understand at first, he grasps that he is moving between two types of weakness, two types of withdrawal. Separation from statements and the Eye inspire more of that nails-inside-his-skull feeling, maddening, yes, but not constant. Because other times, when John feels more human, he feels humanly weak. Hunger, tiredness, fatigue, months, if not years of malnutrition and subsisting off statements alone giving way to a bone-deep exhaustion that sometimes renders him unable to move.

Only been a few days. A few days of this constant oscillation between the hunger he knew and the tiredness he had forgotten how to feel.

“How are you feeling?” Now when Martin asks it’s warmer, somehow. Sympathetic without also being resigned.

“Human, this morning.”

“Can you get up?”

John tries. “No.”

Martin pulls a face that is both hopeful and concerned. “Ought to find a book on physical therapy or something.”

John snorts.

“You can eat today?”

“Yes.” John’s throat feels achy, brain fogged as if by illness. “I think I’m sick?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“No, I mean… do I have a fever?”

Martin checks. “Maybe.”

“Hm.” John blinks Martin into focus. “Think I’m disoriented.”

Real worry colors Martin’s features, now. “Doctor. I should call the doctor.”

John still has the presence of mind to know this might be a bad idea. “What if they think I’m ill?”

“You are ill.”

“No, I mean… can’t leave.”

Martin’s eyes get wider as if he only just considered this. Huh. John had thought with all his fussing he’d have worked out a suitably dramatic plan by then. And- ah, there it is. Determination. “I’ll tell them we’re in witness protection.”

John laughs. He is feeling dizzy. Not pleasantly so.

“I’m going to get you an Advil, and a glass of water, and I’m locking you in, alright? Hopefully the doctor won’t…” Martin trails off as he disappears into the main room. He returns with the promised provisions and waits patiently as John swallows them. “If anything happens, if you don’t feel right, you call me.”

He doesn’t mean call. He means the walkie talkies they found in the table beside the sofa. John has yet to use them, not on any of Martin’s trips, but he accepts the thing and nods and tries very hard to determine what would have to happen for the thing to be necessary.

John drifts in and out of half-consciousness, not really sleeping. More passing into hungry clarity every few minutes, not liking it, and falling back into a humanly-ill stupor.

Martin returns some time later with a doctor in tow. She seems unimpressed by John’s condition, though he gets the feeling that has more to do with Martin than it does with John himself.

When John manages to pay attention, he gets snatches of things like ‘undernourished’ and ‘dehydrated’ and ‘in danger of pneumonia.’ If he is dying, John reflects, it isn’t very exciting, and anyway Martin wouldn’t let that happen without a fight, which is why the doctor is there.

Finally they go into the other room and he does more drifting. The door opens and shuts, and Martin is back.

Alright. John is learning. He turns down the human. “Ouch.”

“Are you o-”

“Yes. I just switched to being the Archivist so I could form a coherent thought.”

Martin frowns, but does not comment. “It’s pretty much as expected. She wants you on an IV drip but is willing to settle for daily visits rather than hospital if I do everything she says.”

“So I’m-”

“Going to be alright, but it’s… a human thing.”

John squints. “Are you telling me I have to be dangerously sick on purpose?”

“I don’t know. But it might be the only way to get the human part of you back in fighting shape.”

“Oh,” John says. He is disappointed by how much sense this makes, and angry that he’s disappointed about being John for any significant stretch of time. “I’m getting the hang of it, but I’m guessing if I get any more delirious I’ll start snapping in and out with no warning.”

“I figured as much.”

“It might get bad,” John says, more slowly, trying to break through Martin’s optimism.

“I know,” Martin says. “And I’m going to be here. So you won’t have to worry.”

Impossible. Martin loves him too much. John feels the Archivist slipping without even intention. Martin just- brings out the human in him. “Too good.”

“There’s my John.” Martin kisses him on the forehead. “Can you sleep again?”

John tries to shrug.

“I’m getting you food. I have to keep feeding you until your stomach’s back up to standard.”

John hums and watches Martin go through the door, listens to him putter around the kitchen.

Less than a week after John’s revelation regarding his humanity, the Eye decides to mount another attack.

He is incredibly ill, so much so that the doctor has set up an IV beside the bed. John has a vague recollection of Martin crying about the word ‘hospital,’ so he knows the doctor knows she’s all they’ve got at the moment. He thinks he should feel bad about that, but there’s only room in his head to think about Martin.

He lets his thoughts float a moment too long, and the Eye strikes.

John is acutely aware of what’s happening and just as aware he’s powerless to stop it. He has somehow gotten weaker, so when the Eye has him vomit up all the contents of his stomach, then laser focus on the doctor and try and fail to ask questions through his shredded throat, all he can do is watch mutely from the corner of his head it feels like he’s been shoved into. While it screams at him, I can be patient, I’ve been patient this long, that’s it, let her fix your throat and I’ll have you again-

The panic in Martin’s eyes is the worst part.

John once described his powers like gathering droplets around a door that was holding back the entire ocean. Only now he is addicted to those droplets, badly, and weeks into withdrawal, and it had become more like a mail slot, really, but his tolerance is nowhere near high enough for the Eye to smash in the door, which is what it feels like it has done, except he doesn’t get the relief the knowledge brings, he only has an ocean’s worth of hunger inside his head and the only way to fix it is to give in.

Martin is losing it. He hasn’t had enough time, John knows, a few weeks is not enough to make up for that, and now he has to watch this happen to John and-

“… here, I’m right here, come on John, come back to me.”

Fuck.

“Is that… yes, there you are, come on, John, stay with me, come on, right here, we’re here together and we’re safe-”

John manages eye contact.

“John! Yes, John, that’s it, come on, right here, just stay here with me, here where it’s safe, come on, you can do this, we’re here in this room and nothing can hurt us-”

His head is like a broken machine, parts grinding and sparking against each other in an attempt to work, damnit, just think, that’s Martin-

“-going to stay here a while, get you better, and human, and we’re going to get a tree for Christmas and I’m going to force you to try eggnog even though I know you hate it-”

John passes out.

Later, he considers it a success.

He awakens feeling very groggy and disoriented by the two voices arguing in the next room. He decides to listen to them until a better alternative presents itself.

“-going to die.”

“If we leave this cabin he’ll be dead in five minutes.”

“How? Why? You’re not making any-”

“Remember when I said ‘human’ and you looked at me like I was insane?”

“Yes.”

“That. That’s why. Please. I- please, even if he were able to string a sentence together he’d say the same thing. He’d probably kick you out, come to think of it, never really had a great sense of self-preservation-”

“Which is going to be quite a lovely joke if that happens again. He could be in serious danger, he could go into shock, his body is on the brink of shutting down-”

“But it hasn’t.”

“Yet.”

“Then I guess we’re going to need more fluids, aren’t we?”

“I took an oath.”

“So did I. And I promise you, if he sets foot outside that door, he’ll be gone. Out of his mind in a second. And nobody will be able to save him. So can you please, _please_ just-”

“I find it difficult to trust an admitted maniac with no medical training.”

Martin, that’s Martin, laughs. “I know quite a few things, but you won’t let me help.”

That would make Martin angry, John knows. He loves helping. Even when it’s a bad idea. Even when it’s helping John, which is almost always a bad idea.

Not John, Archivist.

Shut up. I’m trying to listen to Martin.

“-and that’s fine, I guess, but, you know, I wouldn’t prefer it.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Do you want me to try and explain it to you again?”

“No. I want to help my patient.”

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

“Good. Is there anything I can-”

“Mr. Blackwood!”

“Alright. I’ll just hold his hand, then.”

A moment later Martin is there. He’s shining so bright the Eye hisses at him. John smiles. “Hello, darling.”

“Hi, John.”

“He should eat something. I don’t want… you said he’d been eating every day, before.”

“He was.”

“Can you make toast or something?”

“Yes. One minute. I’m sorry, John, how are you feeling?”

“M’okay. You should stop arguing about me. It’s always a bad idea to help me, you know.”

An oddly high laugh comes from the right of the bed, where John knows the doctor is fidgeting with his IV. He doesn’t want to look while Martin is there. Martin is too worth looking at.

“It’s never a bad idea to help you. I’ve got to go in the other room and make toast, will you be alright if I do?”

A wrenching split second of lucidity gives John enough warning to say, “Keep talking.”

Martin obliges him.

John turns to the doctor to have something else to focus on in case Martin’s voice isn’t enough, which it should be, but just in case.

She’s got him hooked up to a fresh bag of fluids and is watching a readout from the finger thing he thinks is taking his pulse. He notes all of this as Martin narrates his trip to the kitchen.

Martin returns and coaxes John into eating some toast.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this,” the doctor says, voice distant because of all the Martin in the room, “but stay with him. And if anything changes, you call me.”

“Of course.” Radiant. John’s been looking for days for that word, and it’s finally here. Something sizzles in his peripheral awareness. I could have helped with that.

Shut up, John says. I’m trying to listen to Martin.

John thinks he gets some sleep. It’s hard to tell. He is kept present in the room by Martin’s head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and breathing all night.


	2. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LET THEM SLEEP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw more John and the Eye arguing in John's head and serious illness and basically nothing else this one's mostly just emotional

“I think it’s been a month.” John’s voice is hoarse from disuse. The doctor isn’t here, so he figures it’s a good time to discuss this with Martin.

“A month and three days, I think. If I’m counting right.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You’d do it if you were me.”

John sighs. “Okay. But you’ve been… you don’t look well.”

“I’m fantastic.”

“You don’t sleep enough.”

“I do.”

“I don’t want to make you sick.”

“You won’t. I don’t think it’s something I can catch. And we’re getting you better.”

John is not happy about what the ‘we’ implies for Martin, given John can barely make it to the bathroom unassisted. He can’t refute it, though, because Martin is right. They are inextricable now.

There’s freedom to be had in the knowledge.

“Shut up.”

“John?”

“I’m sorry. For some reason it’s harder to resist now I’m not running a fatal fever.”

“You’re still running a regular fever.”

“Yes. I’m glad it isn’t cooking my brain anymore.”

“I’m glad you haven’t thrown up again.”

John looks up with a tired smile. “Hope you haven’t spoken too soon.”

“If I have we’ve still got the doctor.”

John sighs. “She hates you.”

“Yeah.”

“She wants me in hospital.”

“Like hell.”

John smiles. “How are you so good?”

“I’m not. You keep asking me. I’m not.”

“Okay,” John says. “Sure.” And then, “I still love you.”

“I love you too, John.”

He will never tire of hearing Martin say it.

Dr. Windsor reminds them regularly that it’s a miracle John’s still alive under the steam of the three of their efforts. John laughs every time.

“You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

“I know.” He does not know because the Eye does, but because he’s willing to bet based on the doctor’s behavior she’s never had to deal with anyone quite so deranged before.

“Not even going to apologize?”

“Did Martin not explain how much of an arse I am?”

“Ha ha.” Dr. Windsor takes the clippy thing off his finger.

John is heartened he doesn’t know the name of it. “Am I still dying?”

“I don’t know. You’re stable.”

“Hm.” John can get away with talking about this because Martin is out for food. Dr. Windsor made it clear John was not to go unsupervised for longer than it took Martin to use the bathroom, and even then, only an idiot wouldn’t keep the door open. “I am sorry I’m taking you away from your other patients.”

“What, you mean the cows?”

“I thought you were a GP.”

“I am. But the vet’s unreasonably far, so I read veterinary textbooks in my spare time.”

“Do people really not get sick?”

“Not like this. When they do they’re sent to hospital.”

“Are you going to argue with me again?”

“No. At least Martin wants you to go. You don’t sound as if you’d be willing even if you weren’t... god, I don’t know. Is it too insensitive to go with insane for shorthand instead of, I dunno, possessed?”

“I like insane better. Implies agency.”

“Right. Which is of critical observed medical importance in your ability to keep a glass of water down.”

“That’s only happened once.”

“Twice, if you count the first time, when I was half convinced you were seizing-”

“Maybe I was.”

“That doesn’t help, you know.”

“Sorry.”

Dr. Windsor has set up quite an impressive chart for him, though he isn’t convinced anyone else is ever going to see it. She’s thumbing through it now. Doesn’t like making eye contact. John isn’t sure if this has something to do with what Martin told her about their situation or is more generally about his terrible patient manner. “We’ve kept you hydrated for a few days. That’s good.”

“Stable.”

“Yes, stable.” Dr. Windsor looks up for a second, meeting his eyes in a fleeting, calculating way, like she’s checking something. Then her eyes go back to the chart. “For as insane as it all is I’m starting to see what he means.”

“Can I ask what he told you?”

“Well, seeing as it’s about you, yeah. Said he could tell the difference. When you’re you and when you’re not. And I think I’m starting to see it.”

This was not valuable because it was information; this was valuable because it might help John with the endless puzzle that was his mind. “Can you elaborate?”

“Sure. It, um- you go through periods of hyperfocusing. It’s the times when you’re talking about your health, mostly, but it felt the same both times you were having an episode. When you’re seeming insane. Other times, like now, I don’t get the sense Martin- well, suppose he were back- is ready to slam a hand over your mouth to keep that insanity from getting to me somehow. These are the only times he relaxes, even though you always seem worse during them.”

“Are you writing any of this in the chart?”

“Believe it or not I’m actually attempting to flub something useful for the next sorry GP who’s got to deal with you. Assuming that’s... well, assuming you won’t be here forever.”

“I don’t plan on it. Have things to do in London, anyway.”

“Well, you won’t be doing them anytime soon. Shut your eyes, yeah? Sleep can only help.” Dr. Windsor rises and goes into the next room.

John hears tyres on gravel. Martin must be home.

John recovers by degrees.

The stronger his body becomes, the angrier the Eye gets when it does shove his humanity back. The attacks are neither frequent nor especially violent; it’s more accurate to say the Eye’s gained back some ground in his head despite the fact he no longer looks and feels (in a human sense, at least) on the brink of death.

John is finally convinced, three weeks into his attempt, that his body isn’t going to give up on him.

He is significantly less convinced that the Eye is going to let him go.

John never really thought it would, at least not willingly. He’s been hopeful, sure, been basking in the light of Martin’s optimism, but if the fight to get his body back in working order almost killed him he isn’t certain his chances for regaining his mind are particularly good.

Martin, as ever, disagrees. “You’re alive, and we know you’re alive apart from the Eye. And I know you can fight it, you have been for months.”

“Not really. I was still doing statements.”

“That was before. But you haven’t. Not for two months, John.”

“Fine, alright. And you’ve been pretending you’re okay for two months.”

“I am.”

“Martin.”

“No, John, really, I... Look. I had some time, before all this shite started, to process things. You know, you were there.”

“Okay, yes, I was there, but it wasn’t- I didn’t- it’s harder to feel how you are, now, and I hate it.” John didn’t feel especially brave having said that out loud. More selfish, really, because of how much more it was going to make Martin worry about him.

Martin takes his hand, looking more concerned, now, but always unfazed.

“I can’t sense things the way I used to. Before it was in the air, like- I don’t know. Like subconscious signals, smells, or something, I could just tell. But now I’m more human again I can’t-” Wrong, you can, step outside. “I like feeling human but the Eye is very good at reminding me how weak it makes me.”

“It doesn’t. It makes you strong yourself, not strong in a way that’s dependent on it. It just doesn’t want you to be apart, no one’s ever done this to it before, the entities don’t like feeling powerless-”

“The Lonely,” John said.

“What about it?”

“You left.”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t as far gone as me,” John concedes, whether to himself or the Eye he can’t be sure.

“But I was in there, and you pulled me out.”

“That’s different, this isn’t-”

“No,” Martin interrupts, squeezing his hand, “it’s not different. What was it you said when you were really ill?”

“You mean when everything felt hard to make out but you were like a light, an anchor,” and John now realizes he’s been foolish not to think of it this way, not for as much as Martin wants him to, but because it makes sense, “reminding me I was human.”

“Yes. So I’m here to pull you out. Even if it takes two more months, or ten, or... however long. Though I’m really hoping for your sake we make it by January, because I don’t think Elias’s patience will last much longer than that.”

John looks at him reverently, cautiously, as one might look at the sun. “But it isn’t my turn.”

“Oh, John,” and Martin gathers him in his arms, voice soft, “That isn’t how it works, love, you know it isn’t, and I was alone, yes but you were- you deserve to fall apart, too.”

“But you-” John is crying, suddenly. The Eye hates it. “You never got that chance.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“Remember the train?”

“That doesn’t count. It was only a few hours. And I’m-” John cuts off in a sob. His head hurts two ways, now. This way and the way it does when he’s being too human for the Eye to stand it.

“And there was after the train,” Martin is stroking his hair, which is filthy, and John’s probably soaking his shirt with saltwater but he doesn’t seem to care. “Days, John. Days I couldn’t be without touching you.”

“You were so far, Martin, I- you needed time-”

“I had time. And you gave me what I needed. I needed an anchor, and you were there. And now you need one. And don’t give me that shit about me being so far gone, John, the Lonely didn’t serve as a life support machine for me for six months, and you’ve fought your whole way back from that already.”

John wants to argue. He can’t, for sobbing.

When his cries turn to sniffles, his breathing almost even again, the Eye is screaming weakness at him like the shrieking wind of a deadly fall. I am not falling, John tells it. I’m on solid ground.

You’re going to lose, John. You were too much the Archivist, we had you already, just come back-

“Can you talk to me?”

“Yes, anything you need. Is it-?”

“Yelling, yes. Need to drown it out.”

“Okay. Then I’m going to tell you how much this village loves Christmas, which makes absolutely no sense, I thought I read somewhere about their not celebrating so much around here yet they’ve got a town tree...”

“How long was it this time?”

“Fifteen hours.”

John accepts the glass of water Martin is holding and drinks deep. When he finally has his voice all the way back, “I want to say something. I want to say it and make it real but I’m afraid if I say it the Eye will start screaming again.”

Martin brushes some of his hair back from his face. John isn’t sure how he manages; he doesn’t remember the last time he brushed it out. “I won’t suggest anything,” Martin says. “Except do what you feel is best.”

“You know those plexiglass dividers in limousines and police cars and actual taxis?”

“Yes.” Martin’s hand is resting in his hair. He looks content.

“It feels like that. Between me and the Eye.” Huh. No screaming.

“Alright?”

“Yes, I... I think I am. It’s never felt this far, Martin, it’s... underwater.”

“Good. Going to try and hold onto it for a while?”

The question almost confuses him, not because it’s a confusing question, but because John isn’t used to contemplating his capabilities without the Eye trying to twist his judgment. “Yes. Yes, Martin, I think I am.”

Martin rests his head on John’s shoulder. “Let me know how I can help.”

“Already helping.” John closes his eyes a minute, luxuriates in the feeling of Martin’s soft curls brushing against his jaw. Then he says, “It’s not fair, really. It’s like a paradox. The times I let you take care of me are the ones it shies away from, because it’s human to be weak.”

“You’re not weak.”

“No, that isn’t what I meant. Just... everyone needs help sometimes.”

“Yes.”

“And if you needed help you’d tell me.”

“Yes.” The certainty in Martin’s voice is the best relief.

“Exactly. So... I don’t know where I’m going with this.”

“Good.” Martin yawns. “Uncertainty’s human.”

“Have you slept?”

“Sure.” But the way Martin’s snuggling against his side suggests otherwise.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be fine. You got me water, and I feel alright, and I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“But I’m not-” he yawns again, “-tired.”

“No, of course not.”

“Shut up,” Martin says.

“You started it.”

“No I didn’t, you did.”

“I’m not arguing with you. You’re falling asleep.”

“S’the best time to argue. Can’t lose.”

An hour into Martin’s nap the Eye snakes under the edge of the plexiglass with a thousand tiny barbs, each precise enough to hit something that stings.

Martin sleeps on next to him.

John pays the Eye no mind.

On Christmas Day John wakes up to find a tiny tree on their flimsy coffee table, along with a note that reads ‘out for a walk don’t worry please love M’ and a still-hot kettle with a cup and teabag set out waiting for him.

John makes himself toast and wonders where Martin is. He has mostly gained control over the absence or presence of the plexiglass divider, meaning he can snap the thing shut sometimes even when the Eye gets around it. It’s easier to ignore its pleas to be let through when his responding argument starts and ends with ‘I trust Martin,’ because that’s too true for the Eye to ever have a hope of refuting.

A half hour or so later, John is sat on the sofa, reading one of Martin’s novels and very pleased he’s been able to concentrate on the plot of it, when Martin bursts inside with a gush of cold air. “You’re awake.”

“I’m awake.”

“You’re reading,” Martin observes, with no small amount of giddiness.

“I’m reading. And you got us a tree.”

“And-” Martin says, and goes over to the curtain, which John hadn’t thought to open, and-

And Martin’s made snowmen.

John had been sleeping so much the past few days he hadn’t even realized there was enough snow for them, but Martin has managed well enough, and one has a hat and the other has a scarf and their stick arms are looking very secure and John wants nothing more in that moment than to kiss him, so he drops the book aside and crosses the room and does.

“Oh,” Martin says when they pull apart.

“I’m an idiot,” John decides.

“Okay, why?”

“Because I could have been doing that much more often than I have been if I wasn’t so enamored with my own nonsense-”

“No, it isn’t nonsense, John, come on, I certainly won’t tolerate that on Christmas, thank you.”

“Okay, okay, alright.” John kisses him again just because he can. Then, “While I am very grateful for the gorgeous snowmen, thank you so much, Happy Christmas, I think I want to go outside today.”

Martin stares. “What?”

“It’s been months, Martin, I’m sort of losing my mind.”

“No, I’m not- I'd love you to go outside, I just didn’t think- I mean, every time I suggested it you said-”

“Well, I’m feeling very good and think it’s safe to try.”

“Going to need another pair of socks.”

“Doesn’t have to be right now, Martin. I want to look at the snowmen, and I have a feeling they won’t look quite as good from the other side.”

“Yes, alright.” Martin takes off his jacket and joins John on the sofa, and they take turns reading aloud for a while and exchanging comments about characterization and snow sculpture.

When they do go for a walk, John makes it within a mile of the village without feeling the faintest twinge of anything- at least anything enough to break the plexiglass.

“This is much better than the ocean-door metaphor.”

Martin hums. “Which one?”

“Plexiglass. It’s very difficult to break and I have some control of the button.”

Martin hums again.

“Wait,” John says, and pulls them up short just to kiss him, just because he can.

Martin smiles into his mouth.

John decides to make a habit of it.


	3. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for John fighting the Eye inside his own body, major injury, medical talk, broken bones, discussion of death

John wakes up screaming three days after New Year’s to find that the Eye is making another attempt.

He prays to a god he cannot name that this will be the last one.

“-doctor?”

“Not yet. Not- if I’m ill, get her, but I’ll- fuck, Martin, I don’t think you should be in the room, I don’t know if I can-”

“You already know me, John. You’ve already taken all my statements. It’s okay.”

“You’re the only one here and it’s too much. I’m afraid I’m going to slip.”

“Nothing to slip on. It already knows me, and you already know me, and the Archivist already knows me.”

John manages enough clarity to realize Martin’s right.

“-here, I’m right here.”

“Fuck.”

“You can talk through it, if it helps. I won’t mind. Whatever you need.”

“You’re lucky I’m a martyr,” John says, words bending around a pain that’s beyond human. “If I weren’t I’d ask you to kill me.”

“John.”

“I think that’s what it’s doing. Not me. Archivist. It- fighting so hard it’ll rip me in two.”

“Do you need me to-”

“No,” John says. “Good. This is good.” He can’t actually see Martin because most of his conscious mind is undergoing an attempt by the Eye to drown it. Problem is, it only seems to have his own mind to work with, so the best it can do is replay his own horrors and the ones he’s already read. “Not even… a very decent… last attempt.”

Martin sounds a little better when he says, “Oh, John,” so his expression must be descriptive in a good way.

John has never known pain like this. All at once, everywhere, even the parts he doesn’t understand. Except he has known pain like this. If only secondhand. So even though it’s beyond him to cope, it isn’t really, because he can just-

Vicious, wounded keening.

-just push it all off on the Archivist and kill him instead.

It is not a death knell, exactly. Because the Eye is not dying, even if a part of it is. There is more rage in the sound, but it’s flailing, it’s- the Eye is throwing a tantrum.

John laughs, or at least he thinks he does.

“John?”

“I’m fine, Martin. Just-”

That noise had to be outside his head.

“Christ, John, are you-”

“I’m fine. Are you fine? That was outside.”

“Yes. I’m- it’s doing that in your head.” Not a question.

“Louder,” John says, feeling no particular way about it.

“God,” Martin says.

“You know, you can keep talking.”

“Helping?”

“Yes. Giving me something to focus on, and… you’re my anchor, remember?”

“Right okay. So it looks like your eyes are open but you don’t seem able to see out of them right now.”

“No.”

“So it is my duty to inform you that the snowmen are well and truly knackered. I mean, they’re still sort of there, it’s just… not, you know, you can’t recognize them as snowmen so much as really tall piles of snow with sticks poking out. So I’m thinking on our next walk, if you’re up to it, we can try and make some new snowmen. Can even do them facing outside, so the wildlife can enjoy them. Though I’m pretty sure there aren’t any cows nearby. If I were a farmer I’d give them shelter, I mean- is this helping?”

“More than I can say.” Martin’s voice clashes against the screaming in his head like a particularly brutal thunderstorm. The carnage of good clouds against bad. Somehow this is better than Martin not talking.

“And I’ll be glad when the snow’s calmed down, anyway, actually, because we can see more of the cows. But right now it’s fine because we can build snowmen near the house again. I thought they lasted long. I don’t know much about it, never had much chance to make them before, it just… seems like these had some staying power. Shelter from the wind or something. Except I don’t like how cold you got the last time, we really need to get you better boots. I think I can get some from the village, actually. Or you could come. I mean, when you’re ready. Not until long after this. I know you can hear me you evil fuck, you’re not invited. John and I only. Anyway, John, you need warmer clothes, because I don’t give a shit how human you are at any point, you’re too fucking cold, okay? It’s unreasonable. Alarming, even. Like, right now doesn’t count, obviously you’re running a psychotic fever because that’s what human bodies do when they’re trying to expel a parasite. Is this okay? I don’t want to get you hung up on it, I’m trying to distract you, really I am, just I know it can hear me and I thought it might help to throw in a word since I-”

“Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing fine.”

John thinks he sees a flash of a smile, for a second. Then white hot pain again.

And Martin is talking.

“-anyway, your feet seem like a reasonable size that we can get you slightly bigger shoes so you have to wear extra socks, or so you can wear extra socks. I never really noticed if you did, because you’re always complaining about how socks in bed are a travesty and so I can’t tell if your attempts to cram three pairs on are regular for the winter or if it’s just because we’re here. Though I guess I never noticed before- and, I mean, your shoes seem to fit with one pair of socks, so that supports the ‘it’s just Scotland’ theory.”

“Honestly… stopped noticing things like cold about a year ago.”

Martin laughs. “Thank you. That’s more reassuring than you think it is, even if I do hate hearing how much it hurts in your voice.”

John thinks he laughs. It’s still hard to tell.

“Talking. Right. Back to- right. So maybe thermal underwear would be better. Heard that’s a thing ‘round these parts. The, er, woman behind me at the store last week noticed how red my ears were and I think she was worried about me. A stranger, worried about me. And no, it wasn’t Elias, it wasn’t- he doesn’t care, you see? That’s how I know he isn’t watching all the time. If he were it would be more- I dunno, cold, calculating, fishing for information. That’s what he’s done before. Small ways. Someone staring in a coffee shop once. I went to the library, was looking for this book I’ve never been able to find at a store for some reason, and that’s ridiculous, Terry Pratchett, John, honestly, what kind of store wouldn’t- but anyway, that whole creeping in the stacks thing? Him. Must’ve been. And I usually found peace in weekends, parks, things like that, but sometimes there was still that creeping- ugh, you know? And I thought it was them, not him. I thought it was an unfortunate side-effect of working there. We don’t work there anymore, John. You and I, Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, are no longer employees of the Magnus Institute and fuck anybody who thinks otherwise.”

This latest bit sends a high-pitched screeching through the noise in John’s head. Only- “Martin, it’s working.”

“My-?”

“Yes, you’re helping, it’s working-” he almost sobs.

“Oh good. Then fuck the Magnus Institute, an especial fuck you to Elias, like to roast him on a spit or something, fuck the Eye and anyone who helps it, I’m really looking forward to facing him, actually, because you got to do Peter and it’s my turn, you know, John? You were talking about turns the other day, and I really didn’t like it, it bothered me that you thought that kind of formula needed to be applied to something as soft science as a relationship, but now we’re talking about revenge on each other’s behalf I know what you mean. D’you hear that, Eye? Do you fucking hear me? Yes, I’m sorry, John, I want to- to try you said- yes. You will never see John the way I see him. It’s beyond you. No amount of sadistic voyeurism could ever show you the good parts. Because that’s who John is. Good parts. Most of him is good. You know that saying about everyone having dark and light? Well fuck that. Yeah, John’s an asshole, but that’s not fear, it’s- you know what, maybe it is, sometimes, but you need good to feel fear. You need stakes. John’s got a whole life. Years and years, decades. And what have you got? Centuries of misery? A few hollowed-out corpses in the Panopticon basement? Yeah, that’s great, isn’t it, real nourishing. Real rewarding that is, stewing in your own misery, meanwhile John has something to fight for, people to fight for, love to fight for, and I see him and I’m going to keep seeing him and you will never ever have him. He’s ours, you hear me? He belongs here. So take your Archivist and fuck off. John got better without you, he doesn’t need you, he doesn’t want you, and he’s got more without you than all you evil fucks combined will ever have. Get out of John’s head. It isn’t yours, and it never will be.”

John distantly feels the floor, and more screaming, both inside and outside his head, and a whole lot of pain, and is that blood? And that, yes, that’s a broken bone or five, it must be, it hurts more than the ribs going, and more screaming, his name, Archivist, not me, that’s not me, that’s you, take your misery and get out-

John comes to in more pain than he’s ever felt, although given the interdimensional agony is gone it’s really not that bad.

“-to me, please, John, I’m going to-”

“Call the doctor,” he rasps. “But we can’t leave yet.” And then he blacks out.

“-fucking arrested.”

“We can talk about it with him when he wakes up.”

“Do you have any idea how little consent means in terms of this many life-threatening injuries?”

“You said there were only three fractures.”

“Two were compound! And where did his ribs go?”

“Those were gone before. Not my fault you didn’t believe us.”

John blinks his eyes open, painfully, to see Martin and Dr. Windsor arguing at the foot of the bed. About half of his body feels the dull throbbing echo of a fierce pain just held back by drugs. The other half is numb and immobilized. He tries to wheeze out a sound, but all hope of actual words is lost when the effort sets his throat flaming.

“You’re awake,” Martin says, and rushes him just a little faster than the doctor.

John smiles. Proud of him.

Martin seems to get it.

“Do you understand what’s happened?” The sharpness of Dr. Windsor’s voice draws his gaze.

John nods.

“And you still don’t consent to being taken to hospital?”

John frowns.

“Christ, sorry, you stubborn- do you consent to being taken to hospital?”

John shakes his head.

“I fucking hate you two,” Dr. Windsor says, and sinks into one of the kitchen chairs that’s been pulled up.

Martin kicks his aside and sits on the bed instead, which sets the doctor yelling for ten minutes, but John makes it very clear he doesn’t care about the health risks, because he nearly dislocates the shoulder of his unbroken left arm trying to keep Martin there.

“Fucking insane.” Dr. Windsor settles into the chair, apparently satisfied now John’s stopped attempting to move. Even if it is because Martin’s wedged in next to him. “Well, I might be able to get an x-ray van down here so we don’t, you know, fuck up your bones.”

John tries to convey with a look how unimpressed he is at this argument; humans did just fine for centuries without x-ray technology.

“Are you sure he isn’t still-?” this directed at Martin, with a little finger spinning next to her head.

“Yep. Totally gone. Which makes me hesitant not to take him in, actually, but seeing as it was his last request before blacking out, and seeing as any psychic abilities that were there then aren’t now, and seeing as he’s maintaining that hospital is out of the que-”

“I can call 999 on you. You realize that. I can just call 999 and tell them where you are. And he can’t move.”

“Are you going to?” Martin asks.

“One more drop of blood and I will.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t need a transfusion, and the cause of injury is gone, so he can heal now.”

“You make a mockery of the Hippocratic oath.”

“Then call 999.”

John likes Martin’s attitude. It is not unprecedented; rather, he hadn’t had a chance to use it much before banishing the Eye for him.

Banishing.

The Eye is gone.

John can still feel the distant creeping sensation he’s felt with all of them. The memory of contact. But that never-ending diatribe of sick desire and twisted hunger, that feeling that he’s one wrong step away from losing his control and wrenching a story from an innocent passer-by, the prickling of hyperawareness so acute it almost tasted not like observation but like inevitability-

Gone. Gone. Gone gone it’s gone you’re free.

A strangled laugh makes it out of his throat. He winces, but decides it was worth it.

Martin beams down at him. Squeezes his unbandaged hand. “Yes, love. It’s gone. You did it. You shouldn’t talk, because there was a lot of screaming, but you did it.”

John manages some return finger pressure and attempts to convey that, no, actually, Martin did it, but Martin blushes and looks away and isn’t that interesti-

“Gentlemen.”

“Is he dying?” Martin asks.

“Not that I’m aware of. But he could be. Won’t know for sure without an x-ray.”

Martin blows out a long sigh. “Can you get the x-ray here?”

“I fucking hate you, and after you leave this village I hope I never see you again,” Dr. Windsor says, and goes into the main room to make a call.

“I can’t believe I lived.” John can barely talk, but he _can_ talk, and he isn’t dehydrated, and he doesn’t know how else to express the relief so overwhelming it feels like it’s filling him up and spilling out, leaving room for nothing else but his love for Martin. So he’s going to talk.

“D’you know any sign language?”

“Down a hand.”

“Ambidextrous?”

“Martin, let me. And you would’ve noticed.”

“I would have.” Martin is looking at him fondly (the only way he seems to know how the past few days) from the other side of the bed.

John is happier, in this moment, about his ability to argue that Martin sleeping in his bed was fine and they should stick all the medical shit in one arm, than he is about the expulsion of an eldritch horror from his being. Feelings are funny that way. He likes how strong they are now that he’s human again.

Never mind the arm they used was his unbroken one, so he couldn’t easily sign to Martin even if he did know how.

Martin promised he’d go into town tomorrow and buy a tape recorder. John plans to apologize into it, so Martin can play it through the pay phone to anyone who is willing to listen. Mostly he just wants to apologize to Melanie. Basira, he thinks, will be even keeled about it, like she is about most things. Still has to do it. Still owes her that.

The idea of buying a tape recorder is so strange that when John first thought of the request, he laughed so hard he nearly tore a stitch.

(He isn’t sure what they had to stitch. He remembers blood, and knows that enough was broken that Dr. Windsor had to stitch something, but he is still so buzzed on pain medication most of the time that it’s easier to listen to what they all tell him to do than to process any of it himself.)

“I love you,” John says.

“I love you, too,” Martin says. “Need anything?”

“Nope. Maybe less medical supervision.”

Martin snorts. “Good luck with that one. And I wouldn’t let you anyway. Too human again.”

John has no idea how human he is, besides mostly, but he’s been lucid enough the past few hours to have formulated an idea. “Martin?”

“Hm?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

“What?”

“We’ve got to go. Soon.”

“You can’t move.”

“I know. But soon. Elias’s patience won’t last very long, now he knows I’ve… broken the link, I suppose. And once that happens-”

“You’re not going on the run with two broken limbs and a few ribs besides, John.”

“No choice. Unless you want to do it again, and I’d rather not. Impressive though you were.”

Martin’s face cycles through an unreasonable range of emotions before he settles on unwilling. “We can’t move you.”

“Not today. In a few days. And we’ll have to go far, far as we can, and then, maybe, maybe I’ll let you take me in for… checkups, or something.”

Martin is looking decidedly unhappy now. “I didn’t go through all of that just to have you succumb to your wounds.”

“I’m not going to succumb to my wounds. We’ve got money. Enough for a while, at least. Enough to get us farther away from Elias.”

“We don’t need-”

John’s look stops him.

Softly, “You can’t travel.”

“Hotels, Martin. We’ll drive around a while, never stay anywhere more than a few days, I’ll stay in the room so my injuries don’t draw attention, and-”

“You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“I’ve had to.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to… I thought it’d be too early. Figured we could use a few days not worrying.”

“But _you_ have been. Worrying.”

John laughs. “No. I’m going to heal and we’re going to kill him. That’s that. I’m not worried, and I’m certainly not afraid.”

Martin frowns. “I don’t-”

“I’m just being practical, darling, that’s all.”

Martin sighs. Then, “Have you given much thought to how we’re going to kill him if neither of us is an avatar anymore?”

“I have a few ideas.”

Martin reaches out to place a hand, feather-light, on John’s cheek. “I’d love to hear them?”

“Now?”

“Not if you don’t want. But you did bring it up.”

“I did,” John says, sighing. “I figure we’ve got three good options and another bad one.”

“Bad first?”

“Becoming avatars again.”

Martin’s gaze turns from softness to steel. “No.”

“Exactly.”

“What are the other three?”

“Daisy, Leitner, and Helen.”

Martin contemplates this for a moment. “None is particularly good.”

“All better than the fourth.”

“Sure, but... ought we to call Helen?”

“Don’t know. Is she touched by the Eye?”

“Ah, yes, that.”

“I think,” John says slowly, “That our best option is Daisy? But I don’t want to assume anything, since-”

“Right. I, erm, talked to Basira, for a second, and she... wasn’t very forthcoming on the details.”

“Expect not.”

“And that leaves us with my least favorite.”

“Our least favorite. And we don’t even know how to do it, short of some unfortunate lessons from Mary Keay.” John pauses. “Suppose, when we’re on the run-”

“John.”

“Come on, Martin, it won’t be... dangerous. For all we know it’ll be even harder for them to find us, now I’ve broken the connection. Now I’m not linking them all actively, now the Eye can’t...feel them through me. We can handle a Leitner. Finding one won’t be easy, but if anyone can handle one it’s us.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, John, I really do, but your new lack of omniscience isn’t really helping your case.”

John tries to think of a response, but is interrupted by Dr. Windsor bursting through the front door with only, “Knock, knock, idiots,” to announce herself.

“Hello, doctor, how are you?” Martin tries.

“Fuck off. How’s the leg?”

“I don’t know. Itchy,” John says.

Dr. Windsor snorts. “Sounds about right. What about the rest of it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not medically trained and even if I were I don’t think I’m in any state to be trusted reading that,” John tilts his head towards the monitors to his left.

“Probably true. Do you want to try standing?”

“Are you going to take the catheter out?”

“Nope.”

“Rather not, then. Or, well...” John is realizing that he’s going to have to escape Dr. Windsor. Not difficult, probably, if she didn’t have all his vitals wired into her fucking home computer system. She had a VPN, so at least it was safe from Elias. “You know what? No. You’re right. I would love to put myself through unimaginable discomfort to see if my muscles still work properly.”

“Excellent. Scoot this way.”

John does as he’s told.

Standing isn’t too bad.

He’s got a massive cast on his left leg and another on his right arm, so balance is out of the question, but putting all his weight on his right leg and holding onto Dr. Windsor’s arm with a death grip proves... workable.

“Can I, erm-?” Martin asks.

“Not yet, white knight,” Dr. Windsor. “Let me help him first. Knowing your luck, you’ll go to catch him and re-break his ribs by mistake or something.”

Martin looks incredibly annoyed, but unable to argue.

“So, if you put weight on that leg, you’ll fuck it up.”

“Yeah, I assumed that.”

“And you might need to get the cast changed, but overall it’s going to be four months minimum.”

“But I can walk before-”

“Christ, you lunatic, yes, you can. But not yet.”

“What about the arm?”

“That one wasn’t compound, so a couple months should do it. Unfortunately you’re going to need to move around for the ribs to heal, now you’re not quite as faded on painkillers. But you can’t move too much, or you’ll, you know, puncture an internal organ or something.”

John laughs.

“Yeah, might not want to do too much of that, either. Gonna start hurting like hell in three or four hours.”

“Can’t you just give him more-”

“No,” Dr. Windsor and John say at once. They discussed this during Martin’s first grocery run. Only time they really agreed on anything.

Martin evidently decides not to push it.

“So, anyway, let’s pretend I’m crutches, which should be fine even with the arm, don’t anticipate it being too much of an issue compared to the ribs. You might want to do one crutch and have Martin on your left.”

“Was it, er, clear, how I broke my left-”

“Nope. I mean, the applications of force were all wrong, but you’re right about the whole right arm right ribs thing making sense. At least there’s some consistency with that. The leg was more like demon malice, if you ask me.”

John squints at her. It’s the first time the doctor’s made a joking remark about his inexplicable situation that wasn’t shot through with pure vitriol. “Probably right.”

“Wow. Anyway, yes, don’t destroy your leg, please, or puncture a lung or something. Are you feeling okay to stand with support?”

“I think I’m doing it already?”

“Want me to pass you off and go and get crutches out of my car?”

“Sure.”

Martin wedges himself in the small remaining space beside the bed and slips an arm around John’s shoulders. “This high enough?”

“Looks it. John?”

“I think it’s alright. Just don’t wrap around and touch the stitches.”

“Know exactly where those are. Had to help her do them.”

Dr. Windsor snorts. “Ah, ‘do’ is a bit of a stretch, thanks, but okay.”

Martin looks at John. “Good?”

“I think so.”

“Great. Don’t puncture your lung while I’m gone,” the doctor says, and goes out.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“Good, really?”

John smiles. “Yes, Martin. I’m good.”

Martin sighs. “You’re going to make me leave in a couple weeks, aren’t you?”

“The second the stitches are gone.”

“Shall we try a few steps, then?”

“Suppose we should wait for the crutches. Wrong side and everything.”

“Okay. But still, put all your weight on me, yeah? None of this sparing Martin shite-”

“Like it’s that much,” John huffs.

“Um, actually, you’ve gained some back in all your not moving. Might even weigh a hundred and ten soaking wet by now.”

“Can’t get wet in a cast,” John says. Then, “How’s your upper body strength?”

“It, um... exists, I th- oh.” Martin beams. “Shall I just carry you everywhere, then?”

“Have to be careful. So you don’t mess up my ribs.”

“I think I can do that. After you get the crutches.”

“And once the doctor leaves. If she sees you try it she’ll have my other arm.”

Martin laughs.

“Beautiful.”

“John.”

“I always think it, might as well say it.”

The front door opens. Dr. Windsor has returned. “Oi, why is he red?”

“Who, me?” Martin asks sheepishly.

“Yeah. You haven’t been snogging or anything?”

“How stupid do I look?” John asks.

“Eh, three broken bones and some bad rips in your leg and abdomen? Pretty stupid, if I’m being honest.”

“Well. I’m asexual anyway, so just... relax.”

“Sorry, last I checked asexuality is only tangentially related to snogging-”

“Fine, I won’t let Martin kiss me aggressively, or do anything else that might impede my recovery.”

Dr. Windsor sighs, but nods. “Good enough, I suppose.”

“I do know where the broken ribs are. I saw them break.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Doctor Blackwood. John, you ready to try these?”

“Yes.”

John discovers he can almost move.

He decides that’s good enough for a first attempt and gets back in bed.

The pain isn’t really that bad.

Yes, John complains about it in his sleep, and yes, he’s lucky if he sleeps well because he refuses to get on more drugs than are absolutely necessary, and yes, it’s not his favorite thing when he keeps Martin up, but John doesn’t really know what else to do and he isn’t going to kick Martin out of the room.

“One more week, you think?”

“John.”

“Well, we do need to decide where to go.”

“No, we don’t. Car. Drive. That’s it. And I think we can afford two weeks.”

John asks, even though he knows the answer, because Martin would have told him, “Have you spoken to Basira? Or Georgie?”

“No.”

“Then one week.” John wasn’t being unreasonable. His stitches were healing normally, which implied his bones were, too, and based on Dr. Windsor’s timelines that seemed like a decent amount of bedrest before the risk of Elias outweighed the risk of John messing up his healing.

The risk of Elias had started to feel... much more of a problem, the more himself John became. And now he was pain med free, he was pretty much ninety nine percent back to normal.

“Will you give me ten days?” Martin’s tone is pleading.

And he asked just shy of half another week, so how could John refuse? “Fine.”

“I know you don’t like not knowing what’s going on. I know it has to be disorienting.”

John laughed. “You could call it that. But I’ve been partially cut off for months, so... it’s hard to tell the difference, here. It’ll be worse once we go out, I think. Once the only thing I do know is that we’re not safe anymore. I wonder... hm.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t Gertrude tell the others? The sister organizations, the international ones we share research with. I know she was doing as much as she could to throw him off, but it seems like that’s an actual line of defense, so I don’t understand why she didn’t…” John trails off.

“Oh,” Martin says quietly.

John recognizes that Martin recognizes that John’s drifted off into the idea. From the sound of it, Martin also knows that it’s got its hooks in John and he isn’t going to rest until they’ve tried it. Not an idea so viable as this one. Except- “There are other things to consider. We’ll have to find more blind spots, if we want to be able to form a plan. And god, it’s got to be in person, doesn’t it? To keep fellow underlings of the Eye outside Elias’s reach? How much can he see?”

Martin clears his throat. “I think he can see as much as he wants. Which means we’ve got two options.”

“Execute immediately after planning or find ways to use them without getting them directly involved.”

Martin frowns. “D’you think we can get Daisy and Basira back?”

“If we can get Daisy. But they don’t owe us. I don’t know. I mean, Basira won’t stop until she’s got her, and she hates Elias as much as we do.”

“We have to stop calling him that. It'll help. If he works off the same type of system as CCTV with the occasional Eye-touched human mind thrown in, we have to decrease mentions of him.”

“Code would help for more than that. Although it’d have to be stupid. Really stupid. To get past him.”

Martin smiles. “I think we can manage?”

“It’s got to be total nonsense. Like, incomprehensible. And we can only keep the key in blind spots, which- do we count, you think?” John had no way of knowing how connected he still was to the Eye- he hadn’t gone outside since it happened, and presuming Elias knew what was going on John was hesitant to call even a stroll around the house safe. The rest of the grounds weren’t part of the blind spot, after all; John had felt the Eye’s presence closely enough outdoors to know that the only real safety was inside the house. “How’s the car?”

“How’s the car? How should I know?”

“Well, I dunno, you- I've never had one.”

“Technically neither have I.”

“And we can’t do research without a damned... we’re going to need a laptop.”

“Yeah.”

“And a VPN.”

“Yep.”

“And it’s got to be a good one, just in case. And we have to pay cash for everything and... ugh.”

“Pretty much. But it’s not like we’ve spent more than a couple thousand on food, if that.”

“How much have we got?” John starts reaching for the edge of the bed, but Martin grabs his wrist before he can make an attempt to go for the box.

“You’ll open your stitches.”

“They’re almost healed.”

“No they’re not.”

“I’m fine.”

Martin’s voice goes tense, tight, painful. “You weren’t awake during the x-ray.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we don’t need you getting even more hurt when I’m guessing the NHS isn’t available wherever we’re going.”

“You mean the arthritis.” John’s grandmother’s joints had started self-destructing at the ripe old age of forty-three, so it wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting problems at some point.

“Yes, because you’ve been in the equivalent of a very violent car accident-” which is how they’d explained it to the other doctors “-not to mention how confusing eldritch possession must be to our very human cells, and-”

“I saw the x-rays, Martin.”

“It looked so bad, John.”

“She put me on something already. And even with most of the pain meds gone nothing hurts yet.”

“Yet.”

The echo of the doctor all those days ago isn’t especially comforting. But John isn’t worried for his own sake. He reaches to thread his hand in Martin’s hair, which he can finally do now there aren’t tubes in his arm, and says, “I’m fine.”

“I can’t believe I let you smoke, I should’ve tried to get you to quit-”

“I did quit.”

“Not really.”

“And my health wasn’t technically your concern until recently.”

“John.”

“Martin.”

Martin bites his lip and then, rather unsteadily, says, “I don’t like to see you hurting.”

“Come here,” John says, and coaxes Martin into his left side, pulling him close as he can. “Sickness and in health, my love.”

“We aren’t married.”

“Yet.”

“Oh, don’t,” and Martin sobs, now, a little shake wracking through him, and John throws his casted right arm around him, too. “No, John, you’ll hurt yourself, don’t-”

“That’s what the cast is for.”

Martin huffs a laugh that breaks at the end.

“It’s alright, Martin. I’m here. And I’m okay. Better than okay, actually. Broke the laws of unreality and lived. I’m fine, Martin, I promise.”

“Stop lying.”

“I love you, then.”

“I- love you, too,” Martin says, between sobs, “you wonderful- reckless idiot-”

John pulls him closer, admonishing his arm for twinging (it didn’t even break skin, it was fine) and keeps his breathing as even as he can for Martin’s sake as much as his own. “Don’t think anyone’s ever called me ‘wonderful’ before.”

“Ridiculous. Of- of course they have.”

“No. Though I suppose I could have forgotten.”

“You would.” A moment later, “Are you- happy then? Is this- my turn?”

“Oh, Martin.” John just holds him for a while.

When Martin has calmed into hazy half-sleep at his side, he croaks, for the millionth time that day, probably, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

“We need a plan.”

“No we don’t. You’re sleeping.”

Martin sniffles and pulls himself more upright, twisting around to look at John. “We could find out he’s on his way any moment. We need a plan.”

“Why won’t you take a break?”

“I’ve been on one. For months.”

John sucks in a breath that makes his ribs twinge. “Okay. How’s the car?”

“Oh, this again?”

“No, I mean, just… in your very unprofessional opinion, how far should we drive it? Before, you know, absolutely switching to- we don’t have fake IDs.”

“Shit.”

“We need to buy them with bitcoin.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah. I’ve looked it up a few times. Almost did, as a backup plan.”

Martin laughs. “’Course you did. I mean, I did, too, but I was never actually going to do it, y’know?”

“Yeah.” John sighs. “Well. How much have we got left?”

“Thirteen thousand, eight hundred fifty-three pounds. Give or take.”

“You know off the top of your head?”

“Well, we had, like, maybe fifteen and a half, and spent some to get here, but food’s not too expensive when you’re cooking it all yourself, so… What?”

“Nothing,” John says, smiling. “Just you.”

“Anyway,” Martin says, “we have to get a computer first. Or at the very least get on one. I should be able to make some progress through the library, there’s one not too far from here. I don’t like leaving you that long, though. And it… well. You know. We’ll have about a day to get out of here once Elias realizes we’re moving. So maybe it is best to just have the plan and work all the other stuff out while we’re leaving town.”

“Should we go to Edinburgh?”

“What, to buy the passports?”

“Yes, but- anonymity is impossible until I get these stupid casts off.”

“Exact- oh wait. No. No, John, I might have it- would we need to go south first though? I don’t know… and the money might be an issue. Though I suppose we could-”

“Martin?”

“Right. Sorry. So, this safehouse is only safe until Elias gets impatient, because, while he can’t see it and may not even be able to come inside, he has a general idea of where it is. You can’t blend into the background because of your casts, so even if it’s possible for us to move around out there without the Eye just pointing us out to Elias- which it isn’t clear he can do, at least not yet, anyway- we’re fucked until you’re healed. So we need another safehouse.”

John processes this all very quickly. And then says, “We’re going to run out of money.”

“Maybe. Not necessarily. I mean, it’s going to be a problem, for sure, but I know how to get by without using too much of it.”

John blinks. While he had never been rich, he was usually comfortable, as evidenced by the wad of cash under the bed.

“We might be able to make some back. Maybe. Like… okay, if we’re in a shit enough town, right, we can afford to pay rent and eat if we’re both working. Which we should be able to do with our fake IDs. So I don’t know what that’ll do to our travel fund, but at least the time will give us a chance to find the most straightforward way to get allies. And the one that costs the least amount of money. Do you remember how much-”

“Fifteen hundred quid each. If we want more than passports. So, if we want to be able to get jobs. And we’ll have to pick a town with a library, because it’s probably easier not to be surveilled there than in a coffee shop or something. I mean, suppose we could use McDonald’s, or wherever, but they all have cameras.”

Martin groans. “We need new names.” He buries his face in John’s jumper. “I don’t want new names.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin turns so his words aren’t muffled. “No. It’s just… it is what it is. Alright. So we have ten thousand for travelling before the new place, and I’m guessing that’ll cost, like, three to get off the ground, which means we’re looking at seven thousand remaining. Can that get us where we need to go?”

“Can get anywhere with a thousand quid if you set your mind to it. Give or take. So that’s… a couple trips and food. More if we’re careful. Is it going to take more than a couple trips to get it all done?”

“Not if we find another blind spot.”

“Yes, right, blind… Martin?” This is a stupid idea. John knows it is. He’s presenting it anyway. He needs to hear Martin call it stupid. “We already know two blind spots. This one and the Panopticon.”

“John.”

“I know.”

“Not now. For... for the future. We can’t forget. We might be able to come back here, is all, if...” John sighs. “If Elias doesn’t find a way to compromise it while we’re gone.”

“Don’t know that he can. No one’s been able to compromise Hilltop Road.”

John snorts. “Sure. Anyway. That’s the plan, then.”

Martin shifts, pressing his face into John’s good side, and then screams a little.

“I know.” John strokes a hand through his hair. “I know.”

“When will it be over?”

“Soon as we can get away with, Martin. I promise.” Well. John’s gone and done it now. No going back on a promise to Martin.

Martin seems to sense this and smiles against John’s jumper. He can’t really feel so slight a movement, but he hears it in Martin’s voice. “Got to start thinking of code names, then.”

“When you’re done sleeping.”

“I’ve already-” Martin breaks off to yawn, “-slept.”

Except John hasn’t stopped stroking his hair, and coming up with plans really is exhausting, and before John knows it they’re both asleep.


	4. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for being on the run, discussion of healing injuries, serious emotional discussions, discussion of rough childhoods, discussion of past canon traumatic events, and discussion of transitioning (no medical talk, I had a sensitivity reader, we respect and support our trans, nb, and gnc siblings in this house)

The day comes.

They are ducking out on Dr. Windsor with a thank you note. Poor recompense for keeping John alive, but he figures saving the world might balance that out, even if she won’t ever know they did it.

He can walk on the crutches, though his stamina is lacking and the thought of stairs makes him so dizzy he may as well be falling down them already. They get up early, neither able to sleep well. John determines to stay awake until they can stop and rest, because it’d be shit of him to pass out and leave Martin on the road alone when he was so tired, and-

“Got everything?” Martin asks. He’s doing one last sweep of the house.

John isn’t able to do much in the way of helping. “Thought so. Packed most of it last night, got all the food this morning, and...” John trails off, staring at the battered, but still intact, coffee table. He feels a tug at the back of his mind, something about tape recorders, and thinks of their last one, purchased at a secondhand shop for John to apologize to everyone, which he had, and then Martin had played it through the phone and thrown it away, and that was the last one he’d seen and John sincerely hoped they didn’t see any more.

“Ready? Probably pee first.”

“Yeah, okay.” John is just about used to needing help peeing. Some reason it’s more irritating than showering with two massive casts and healing ribs to ignore. He still hasn’t figured out why, and sincerely hopes he can do it himself soon enough not to have the proper chance.

There’s nothing in the bathroom. Nothing in the fridge. Empty drawers. No box under the bed; it’s tucked under John’s seat, now. The cabin somehow feels emptier than it had when they got there, even though they’re leaving three months of their lives behind.

John shakes off the thought only to remember that Martin has to do all the driving. Maybe if they hit a straightaway he’ll let him-

“I don’t like that look. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” John says, drying his hand on his jeans.

“Wrong.”

“Fine. I don’t think you should drive the whole-”

“We are not having this argument again,” Martin says, and strides out of the bathroom.

That is progress. He lets John get around for himself now, mostly, and seems to have an intuition about him needing help, or no, he just pays attention, Martin pays so much attention to him, John has never been seen like this by another person, he doesn’t deserve him, Martin shouldn’t have to- “My right leg is fine.”

“Your arm isn’t. Neither are your ribs, which I’m guessing would not take too kindly to the kind of acrobatics you’d have to do if you needed to swerve or something.”

“Straightaways, Martin. I can drive the straightaways.”

“And where are those, then? Got a map leftover from the Eye?”

John looks as unimpressed as he can while passing Martin, who is holding open the door. He is still annoyed, but he didn’t know people could be so in sync with each other as to be able to maintain an argument independent of one holding the door open for the other, and that’s stupid, of course they can do both at once, he knows Martin, Martin knows him, it’s just- “If you get tired we’re pulling over and sleeping, and if you disagree I’ll- I don’t know, I’ll tackle you or something.”

“So you’re threatening me with your further injury via physical affection?”

“I didn’t think the word ‘tackling’ was especially cuddly, though if you think it is I’m sure I can find-” he cuts off at Martin’s smile. Martin opens the passenger door for him. “Okay. I’ll admit I don’t have many decent plans now we’re so... tangled.”

“That’s not a Maroon 5 reference, is it?” Martin just knows how to get John’s cast into the car without making him uncomfortable, they’ve never practiced, the thing is past his knee, _how_ -?

“I don’t think so.”

“Tell me you’ve heard ‘Songs About Jane,’” Martin says before closing the door and going round the driver’s side.

“I can’t lie to you. Or I won’t. Or I can’t and I won’t, because I love you, and this isn’t making much sense, is it, but you get what I-”

“I love you too, John.”

“Okay.” John tries and fails not to get bowled over by it. Happens a lot, even now. Even after months of hearing it.

“Second we have an internet connection I’m enlightening you. It’s excellent. Sublime.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you call anything sublime. Well. Maybe once or twice, but I don’t count food at all, because it’s got the word ‘lime’ in it, and I don’t count poetry either because I’m never going to be prepared to pass judgment in that arena-”

“You pass judgment about poetry all the time.”

“Okay. But it’s not judgment you agree with, and also I’ve never heard your poetry, so I don’t know where you’re coming from.”

Martin is quiet for a while. Then he says, “I haven’t ever shown you my poetry?”

“No.”

“Hm.” That’s all he says. Not ‘I’ll have to show you’ or ‘there’s a reason for that’ or ‘would you like to see my poetry,’ just hm.

John decides to let that rest. A quiet mile passes. Then he asks, “What are the lyrics to that song you mentioned?”

Martin opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again, and then is laughing, for ages.

John tries to join in a little but it hurts his ribs, so mostly he just smiles a lot, and Martin is laughing so hard and so beautifully. John’s never heard him laugh so much before. It’s the greatest sound in the world.

Finally Martin catches his breath and says, “You aren’t going to like them.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to project on them, which you shouldn’t, I make my own decisions, and also there’s a web analogy going on.”

“Oh. Well now you have to tell me them.”

“I don’t remember all of them. Just I think we’re both implicated? I think? So when I do play it for you _please_ do not read into that.”

“D’you know how much literary analysis I did at Oxford, Martin?”

Martin groans.

“It stays with you. That’s all I’m saying. Involuntary reflex.”

They talk like that for a long time. It’s nice. John wants to do it forever and determines to stop at nothing in the attempt. Heal, stupid bones. We’ve got to keep Martin safe forever.

It doesn’t much matter where they go so long as they get away from the safehouse, so they start northeast to get to the A8. They did pick up a map, at a fueling station, determine they’re going straight for Inverness, and decide driving through it won’t be too risky as long as they take a hard right when they get there and start on the A9. It isn’t much of a plan beyond the fact that the countryside and the coast are two distinct places, and that if they don’t keep civilization a stone’s throw away they’ll be fucked.

John is a bit worried about stopping, but there’s only so much they can do on that front. He’ll never heal if he can’t sleep, and he isn’t exactly keen to see Martin kip in the car, either.

They decide, that when they get to Inverness, they will trade this car for a different one. It, too, had been Daisy’s, kept in someone’s spare garage for a fee until they’d come up to get it. John is distantly afraid that the plates will become an issue. Martin promises they’ll sell it before they settle, which eases his mind somewhat. So long as they _can_ settle, at least for a moment, so long as they get a chance to work it all out without worrying about Elias kidnapping them in the dead of night-

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, don’t,” John groans. “I’m being morbid, change the subject.”

“Okay. Not much better, I guess, but how are you feeling? Apart from the bones. And the stitches.”

“I’m very full.” In an attempt to return himself to health, John has been eating as much as he can without hitting that threshold of feeling terrible. He thinks it’s working; he’s up to three meals now, even if he might not go so far as to call his lunches a meal. “I’m nervous. But I don’t- the Eye was much worse. Feeling that all the time, it- this is nothing.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Alright, though. Not can’t-drive tired, just being-honest tired.” Martin is sure to cut a glance his direction.

John gets the point. “I know. Not long enough. Haven’t even been on the road a day. Speaking of, we should probably keep an eye out for places.” At least they didn’t have to run their credit cards, even if there was a chance Elias would notice them otherwise. That had to count for something. “By full dark I don’t want to be driving anymore. It isn’t safe when we’re both this tired.”

“Okay. I can get onboard with that.”

“Good.”

They do find a place, a little inn off the road, and have a hot dinner and a warm bed to collapse into. John has gotten good at finding a way to sleep in two casts, and Martin never minds adjusting, and they’re both so exhausted that by eight they’re both fast asleep.

They talk, while they drive.

Not always. Sometimes they listen to the radio, or to nothing, and sometimes John reads a secondhand paperback out loud. But for hours, they talk.

John learns what it was like for Martin to grow up taking care of a begrudgingly accepting mother, one whose hurts were always greater, however slightly, than his own. He tells Martin what it was like to grow up being cared for by a grandmother too tired to hold him closer than an arm’s length, if a loving one at that.

“I know my mother loved me,” Martin says. “I never doubted she loved me. I just always also felt like a burden. Even when she was really ill, and I had to do almost everything for her, I still- it still felt like I was the one imposing somehow.”

John takes a breath. “I know what it’s like to feel the burden. My grandmother was old. Too old for me, at least. And after… she had to see a child die and then be reminded of it.”

“Suppose that was my burden. Looking like the man she hated, being that reminder to her. And the older I got the more I’d have looked like him, until I was the same age, and then… god. Elias told me that.” Martin’s voice gets quiet. “Didn’t realize how awful he was until then, but I think a part of me always knew.”

John laughs. Or, not a laugh, exactly; more a short, clipped, self-deprecating sound. “Something not quite right. I got the sense he could see all the way through me. Like if I was thinking too hard about a secret he’d sense it somehow, pull it out of me. Not even in the Eye way, it never felt like that, it was more… actively sinister.”

“Yes. That. With you it was moderated acceptance, but with him it was delight. Enjoying other peoples’ misery and being too far gone even to feel bad about it.”

John turns to look at the endless countryside out the window. “Is that what kept me human, then? Remorse?”

Martin’s voice is gentle. “Very human thing. Guilt. Shame is different. Got rid of that a long time ago. But guilt…”

“Sasha,” John says, “and Tim.”

“‘I had not thought death had undone so many,’” Martin quoted. Then, “Until I learned it had.”

It was one of the few lines of poetry John could recognize; the Waste Land, T.S. Eliot. An examination of war, and death, and humanity. “Sometimes I think, is it better or worse? Are we better or worse? What we did, or what I could have done, compared to Gertrude? She was saving the world, too. Even if she sacrificed people to do it. And we- _I’ve_ sacrificed people. Whether I understood or not, that’s what I was doing. And I don’t- god, Martin, I don’t want to say it,” but the car was a confessional, now, “but I think I would over again. If the world was the exchange.”

Compassion, he is so compassionate, John has never known someone so full of love. To have seen everything he’s done and only say, reassuring, “Never know. And we can’t change the past. Both things are beyond us.”

“I know,” John says. “I know.” But it doesn’t feel honest enough, not for this. He needs- he needs to confess. “I don’t like not knowing anything. Not- I know I can’t know everything, I never really wanted to, just- this is important. We should be able to figure this one out. If there’s a way not to give into fear, a way to counteract them, after everything I’ve seen there has to be a way to-” What can he say? A way to fix it? There is no fixing this, like there would have been no fixing the apocalypse. He can’t change the past, Martin just said it. Can’t bring their friends back, can’t undo the torment he’s caused everyone he’s fed on. “I’m so tired of dead ends.”

“We’ll figure something out, John. We always do.”

John searches the endless stretch of trees and grass on the other side of the window for answers he knows aren’t there. One hopeless loop broken to get trapped in another one. But no, that’s not right- this loop isn’t hopeless. He did get out, at least partially. He stopped one horrible thing from happening. If they just keep going, if they make sure that things are different for the ones who come after them- “Don’t let those who come after repeat our mistakes, who said that?”

“You, just now. And every politician, every soldier, every teacher, every parent and grandparent and mentor. All the ones who came before. They all say that.”

Not a futile effort, then. Just feels like it. “That means there’s something _to_ come before. Something after.”

“Yes,” Martin says. “I believe there is.”

“But we have to stop the world ending first.”

“Sure, John. For a third time.” There is a resignation in Martin’s voice, a tiredness, and-

“Are you saying you want to giv-”

“No. I’m saying that maybe once Elias is done, we should be, too.” Martin shoots him a look at this, not exactly pleading, just- asking him. To consider it.

John does, in silence. Martin lets him; time passes. When John eventually speaks again, it is to say, “I don’t know if we can do it, but I’m willing to try.”

“Okay,” Martin says. “Okay.”

And that’s enough, for now.

It is always the same pattern.

Wake up. Eat. Drive until John needs to stretch or Martin needs to pee or- whatever. Stop, drive more, repeat until lunchtime. Stop to eat. Sometimes stop somewhere in town, pick up another paperback or a blanket or whatever else they need. Other times stop on the road, eat something they have left over, or something they bought the day before for this very purpose. Walk a bit. Back in the car, back to driving. They go until they find a place to stay, and then they are done for the night. Eat, sleep, repeat.

John is feeling back to normal. He didn’t remember, for a long time, what that felt like, but he has gotten the hang of it. Eating and sleeping. Body aches. Needing to stretch. John has promised many times over that he’ll tell Martin when he needs to stretch, but he thinks Martin makes extra excuses for them to stop. They will have to talk about this sometime. Right now, though, John is content to let Martin fuss over him, so long as the alarm bells signaling predator aren’t ringing in his ears. They haven’t yet, though John knows they’re being checked in on, watched, tracked, as best Elias can. He has enough of the Eye to still notice that.

When John brings it up, Martin says, like he always does, “Is he on his way?”

John always says, “No.”

They don’t ask each other questions too much. John thinks the confessional metaphor holds, because they don’t ask; they just give. It is easier for him. No risk of compulsion even if he’d rejected the power that would make it possible. Still, it feels better. Feels so much the opposite of what the Eye does that it only ever makes John feel good, feel human.

What they share could be anything. Recountings, stories, bits of memory called up by the things passing outside. John sees a bird out the window once, vivid black and white and gray against the trees, and tells Martin a story about the bird who lived in his yard growing up, how just when his grandmother’s certainty would waver, it would reappear again, the next day, singing them awake. Stories about falling asleep in class because he was up late reading, the creaky floorboard that made sure his grandmother never caught him, and the time she finally decided enough was enough and he couldn’t read for fun until he promised to go to bed on time. The time his uncle showed up at their door, from far away across the sea, and John could hear their muffled voices through the floor; that night his grandmother didn’t sleep at all. His uncle left in the morning, and no more was said about it, though she hugged him occasionally after that, had an edge in some of her looks that made John understand that, for all his inconvenience, she wasn’t going to lose him, too. He tells stories from uni, stories about Georgie and their stupid friends and their terrible band, stories about the few trips abroad he’d taken for fun and the best days he’s ever had. The worst ones.

Martin tells it all, too. The time he found a hurt frog in his backyard and kept it in a shoebox in his room, frantic trips to the school library to found out what kind it was and what it ate and how to keep it happy until it could jump again, and he set it free. A day that stands out, vividly, so much so that he can remember the socks he was wearing, the day he came home from school crying and he couldn’t explain to his mother why and she said it for him, asked him if he was a boy, maybe, and he cried harder than he ever had before or since because it was the first time he understood what it was to be seen. Opening the acceptance letter from uni, still not having the faintest idea if he could go or even wanted to, but the relief, and the pride, that this was something he could do, this was a choice Martin could make. Good and bad moments making a tapestry of him. John thinks, that’s my Martin, and I’ll never let go of him again.

John tries to let him know every day.

Especially days when Martin’s stories bring back that hurt, timid part, when his stories remind John what it’s like to feel less. “You can be a good parent some ways and a bad one in others. My mum was. She always knew when something was making me sad, not that daily melancholy, but true hurt. I mean, told her when I was six and she called me Jay until I could decide on a name. The most parental affection I ever felt for her was when she took care of me after surgery. I always took care of her, that was my job ever since dad left, but this one time- this one time, _she_ was getting _me_ tea and making sure _I_ took _my_ pain meds and asking how _I_ was feeling. I’d never realized how annoying that could be, before. And then when it was the other way round, I thought, maybe that’s why she’s so irritated, because even then she only asked the right amount. When I actually needed something. That… that instinct again, I think, that sense of pain. She had a way of doing that. Making you feel noticed in the oddest ways. Even sometimes when she was really bad herself, she’d make me feel so good, so valuable and safe and, and then she’d… well, I guess that was it. Even on the best days I felt valuable. Not worthy. Valuable.”

“Well you are. Worthy of all the love and affection and beauty and truth and good in this world.” John pours his heart into the words.

Martin’s voice is soft, and fond, “I know that now, John. I have you to remind me.”

“I love you, too, Martin.”

Martin lifts his broken right arm, gently, so gently, and leans to kiss his fingers. His smiling lips are warm against John’s skin, and John feels more at home, in a probably-stolen car in the middle of nowhere Scotland with Martin, than he ever has in his life.

It is complicated, John learns, being on the run and being ill.

He brings his medical records from location to location, and he knows, at each temporary stop, that the doctor’s office is probably pinging Elias. Because John hasn’t got a fake name yet.

It isn’t that he needs more drugs; Martin won’t let him go a week without being looked at. The excuses sound shaky, to John’s ears. New arthritis, need to check on your ribs, can’t let you get anemic again. But he goes along, because it means they are at the doctor regularly, and they did not make it this far just for something to happen to Martin and for him to ignore it.

In the third exhausting but contented week of their drive, they get in the car to move on, and Martin says, “I know what you’re doing.”

John abandons all pretense. “But what about- what if-”

“I’m more than a decade into this body, so I know how to maintain it, and I haven’t taken anxiety meds in over a year, and from what I understand, you flat-out refused to go on anything even mind _helping_ before your stint as an avatar, so. Just leaves us with healing, doesn’t it?”

“I’m fine.”

Martin sighs.

John is not satisfied. “Okay, no, look, come on, this isn’t going to work. We’re both hell-bent on taking care of each other, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we both need to be well anyway because we’ve got to protect each other, so neither of us would ever be actively opposed to remaining well.”

“Yes.”

“So I think these discussions are counterproductive and we should have a safe word-”

“Oh my god.”

“- for when it’s too much.”

“You are implying that the level of impairment brought on by lust is comparable to our inability to think clearly when it comes to the other’s health.”

“Yes.”

Martin laughs. “What if we ever need a real safe word?”

“First off, doubt it, we communicate way too well for that to likely be necessary, and second, we can use the same one. It isn’t about a specific situation, it’s about- Martin, we’re too codependent. Like, it’s fine, it’s keeping us alive, mutual consent, whatever, but that means we’re relying on knowing each other instead of communication for some things. So we need a backup system. In case one of us slips. In case we’re in a situation where it just doesn’t work.”

Martin mulls this over a while. John recognizes the expression. Then Martin says, “I’m not actually opposed to this, but you realize your reasoning’s kind of-”

“My reasoning’s fine. Unless you’re somehow not mentally impaired by the thought of one of us getting hurt, especially me, even though we’ve got our fucked-up symbiosis going on.”

Martin frowns.

John waits.

“Okay,” Martin says. “What do you suggest?”

“Traffic lights. Works for everyone else.”

“Where-”

“I’ve read loads of good porn.”

“Ah.” Martin laughs, but this one is lighter than the last. “We would be us and need a safe word for feelings.”

“It’s not for feelings it’s… okay, it’s for feelings. We have a safe word for feelings.”

“I want to make a joke but that’ll defeat the purpose of this conversation.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Green,” Martin says.

John smiles in spite of himself. “Fuck off.”

“Thanks, I think I will. ‘Cept we’re definitely doomed without the other, so maybe not.”

“You aren’t,” John says, suddenly serious.

“Don’t-”

“I mean it,” John says. “Really. You’re stronger than me with all this, and smarter than me, and... it was you who got rid of the Eye, Martin. Not me. You did that.”

This makes Martin angry. “So do the months of you fighting it every second not count, then? What about the plexiglass? What about your broken bones?”

“Broken bones? You’re going to compare that to forcing a- an entity to-”

Martin pulls over.

John listens to his breathing, knowing he is gearing up to say something, that John will argue about, probably, but not wanting to rush him.

Martin unclenches his hands from the steering wheel, sets them in his lap, and turns to John. “If you ever try to diminish your trauma again, I am going to say ‘red.’”

“It’s not your trauma.”

“Yellow, John.”

“I’m fine.”

Martin laughs. “Try again.”

“All my waking human hours since I started feeding on people have been spent considering what that means, not disregarding the shit Elias has done to me, and yes, I do know that shit was done to me, I’m not trying to take responsibility for it all anymore, but I have to for some of it, because I’m not going to stop believing in free will anytime soon, so if you think I haven’t processed any of this you’re wrong, because I have, and I continue to, and I will be forever, but please don’t let that convince you I’ve reverted to a state of constant background guilt, okay? Because I’m working on it. And, you know what, yeah, fucking yellow.”

“Do you want to talk about this?”

“I want you to stop acting like- you know, Martin. I did this to you. After the fog, at the safehouse. When I was convinced I shouldn’t be sick, that- that was me thinking you shouldn’t be okay and not trusting you to tell me if you weren’t. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“But you need me to do the same for you.”

“Yes.”

“And we need to stop subtly lying to each other because we’re trying to keep the other one safe without being told they don’t need it.”

“Yes.”

Martin sighs. “I can try if you can.”

“We’re going to need to call each other out.”

“Yep.”

“Like, all the time.”

“I know,” Martin says. “That’s why you made a safe word.”

“Can we get back on the road, please?”

“No. You should walk.”

“Um, excuse me, yellow?”

“I actually have to pee this time.”

“Yellow, Martin.”

“Come on, John, I’m serious, please, please, do it for me. If you don’t want to I’ll just go pee in the grass and we can keep driving-”

“You are not peeing in the grass, Martin, we can stop at the next station. Been a while since we’ve seen one, and it’s not like we don’t need petrol.”

“Okay.” Martin pulls onto the road. “But I’d be happier if you got out.”

“I’ll come to the bathroom with you.”

“Yes!”

“And do one lap around the station,” John adds, because his knee really does hurt, and they’re being honest with each other.

“I love you,” Martin says.

“Green.”

“I love you so much they haven’t invented words for it, but I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying.”

“I love you so much I can’t stop being human.”

Martin is beaming.

“But do you really have to pee? Because my leg hurts, but-”

“Yes, John. We are out of water, how dare you suggest I would try such a deception mere minutes after I promised not to, this relationship is built on quicksand, we’re getting a divorce, I am filing for divorce-”

“This is ridiculous. Because if you kill Elias and I kill Peter, our respective murder records are killing opposing halves of a divorced couple because they threatened the other one of us. You realize how ridiculous that is, right?”

“It’d seem more ridiculous if I didn’t fully intend to kill Elias.”

“Should we talk about this seriously?”

“I’m completely serious. I’m going to kill Elias, and while I don’t condone murder in general I appreciate that you killed Peter for me.”

John laughs, a little hysterical. Because it’s true. “We’re murderers, Martin. I finally made good on all- on all that-” John is unable to think of Tim without crying, just then.

Martin pulls over again.

“Why… he was, the Stranger, he- he tried so hard-”

Martin’s arms are around him, one hand clutched protectively at the back of John’s head, but he doesn’t hush him. Just lets him grieve for a second.

“Not fair, not fair, not fucking fair, Martin, this isn’t fair, none of them had to die, and-” he sucks in a breath. “Say what you will… about Gertrude… but she- she was- practical-”

Martin’s saying something, John realizes, quiet in the close space filled with sobs, but steady, a current of reassurance, “Not your fault, John. It’s not your fault. I’m here. We’re safe. It’s not your fault.”

There is no more discussion of turns.

There is a day that will stick out in John’s mind later, though he has no way of knowing this at the time. If pressed, he might have said it was their word choice that stood out, though it really wasn’t all that different from any other day. They’d been making marriage jokes since they left the cottage.

John wakes to the feeling of Martin’s warm skin against his own. They’d finally got a really warm room, and John had needed contact, so when Martin pulled off his shirt and held his arms open John did the same and dove at him.

John’s been using him as a pillow, cheek squished against his solar plexus, head being lifted ever so slightly by Martin’s slow, even breaths. His hand is tangled in John’s hair, which he has been trying to keep as clean and untangled as he can now he isn’t a certified invalid any longer. John knows Martin is waking because he feels his breaths change in quality, feels Martin’s fingers twitch against his scalp. When Martin begins to stroke his hair, John says, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“We should eat. Even if I don’t want to move.”

“I know,” Martin yawns. “But you know what?”

“What?”

“Breakfast in bed,” Martin says. “From that shop yesterday.”

“Oh,” John says. There’s a paper bag on one nightstand filled with things from the little bakery in town. He’d forgotten, and remembering reminds him all over again how exciting it is to eat now that he cares. “What should we try first?”

“Definitely the Danish… thing.”

“In a minute.”

“In a minute,” Martin agrees.

John luxuriates in the closeness, the nowness, the love of the moment.

Yeah.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Martin says. “Want to get up? A little?”

“A little,” John capitulates, and shifts to sit up. He snuggles as close into Martin’s side as he can to make up for the fact he isn’t using him as a pillow any longer.

“Why is that your favorite spot?” Martin asks, rolling down the top of the bag and balancing it carefully on their now-tangled legs. “I mean it can’t be comfortable, it’s tied for least fatty part of the human torso, with, like, collarbones.”

“What, here?” John asks, and touches, feather light, the place his face was a second ago. That shallow, flat spot where ribcage sits perfectly parallel to skin.

“Yeah.”

“That’s where you laid on me. When… I can hear your heart and your breathing, but neither one’s too loud.”

“You know that, the solar plexus, the celiac plexus, it’s a nerve center. One of the knots where other things connect.”

“I didn’t,” John said, “though, if anything, that supports my argument.”

“Oh, does it?”

“Mhmm. Maximum number of nerves in contact with my stupid face. Want you to know I’m there,” John mumbles through a mouthful of something sweet and fluffy.

“Your face isn’t stupid,” Martin says, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Although I might make the argument you are, sometimes, stupid. Like right now, you’re getting so many crumbs on the bed-”

“It’s fine,” John insists. “We don’t live here, and they’d have to change the sheets anyway, and besides this is sticky so I’m pretty sure the crumbs are just landing on me and not rolling off.”

Martin glances down at his body, which is, as John could feel, splayed with a constellation of breadcrumbs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I am absolutely not helping you clean that up.”

John laughs and finishes off whatever delightful thing he was eating, taking a moment to lick his fingers and give Martin his absolute worst seductive expression.

“I cannot believe I fell in love with you sometimes.”

“’Cause you didn’t see this,” John says, patting his crumb-coated torso. “Date an asexual. Worst you’ll get up to in bed is cuddling. Wrong. This is the absolute worst thing that could have happened to this bed, but it isn’t our problem, because we’re fugitives of the law.”

“I can think of one worse thing.”

John narrows his eyes.

“Shoes in bed.”

“You were right, we should get a divorce.”

Martin snorts. “Yeah, absolutely. Grounds for dissolution of marriage, agreement about the horrors of shoes in bed.”

“Even though I don’t actually disagree with you.” John tilts his head to the side. “Would you want to?”

Martin knows what he means, but he makes John say it anyway. “Would I want to what?”

“Get married.”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. “I never thought I’d have… this. I never thought I’d want to. And, I mean, we’ve done all the important bits already. Joint incomes, actual partners in crime, eldritch ritual avoidance.”

“Well, if we don’t get married, we can’t get divorced, so maybe that’s-”

“John.”

John meets his eyes.

“I didn’t say ‘no.’”

“Okay,” John says, blushing against his will. “So, anyway, we crashed last night.”

“Yes we did.”

“And have a tub, so…”

Martin raises his eyebrows. “Leave at lunchtime?”

“Leave at lunchtime,” John says, and goes to rinse off the mess of crumbs before drawing a bath, because he may like taking the piss but even he has his limits.

This isn’t the first time they’ve taken a bath. It’s a little difficult, what with the cast to consider, but if the tub’s situated the right way John can just lay on top of Martin and keep his leg out of the water, and he knows it’s as nice for Martin’s driving cramps as it is for his aching joints. He can’t get into the tub as much as he wants to, but John figures that’s a small price to pay for all the concentrated warmth and contented Martin he gets out of it.

They don’t need to talk anymore, not at times like this. They do, because it’d be ridiculous not to, what with them being injured and slippery. But they can sit for long stretches, fifteen minutes, sometimes, with only the sounds of their breathing and the gentle slosh of water in the room.

John finally starts to get cold, so he tells Martin.

“Good for me to lift you?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay...” Martin hooks his arms under John’s and slides back.

“You know,” John says as he plants his foot and does his best to help Martin pull him up, managing not to slip, “I’ve gotten used to this.”

“What, to having a broken leg?” Martin asks, stepping out of the tub without letting go of John.

“Being taken care of.”

Martin seems to take that as a challenge, because, though he doesn’t say anything as they pat dry, he bypasses John’s attempt to step out of the tub and lifts him in a bridal carry instead.

“Martin!”

“I can carry you three feet, thanks, you still don’t weigh that much even with the cast _and_ soaking wet.” Martin sets him gently on the bed. “Do you have any preferences?”

“Um, do I have a choice? I thought we were a day away from having to do laundry.”

“We are. You’ve got a very unimpressive brown or a nasty teal color.”

“Teal, definitely.”

Rather than throwing them at his head, as Martin usually does before asking John if he needs help, he gets his own pants and a t-shirt on first, then picks some of Johns few clean things and goes over to the bed. “You good with this?”

“You mean one of my two pairs of jeans, eight mysterious shirts, and your favorite jumper? Yes, I do object, take the jumper back.”

“Nah.” Martin dresses him slowly and methodically, not even letting John put the shirt on himself, which makes him roll his eyes, but Martin seems not to notice. He even puts on John’s sock before he goes to finish dressing himself.

“Martin,” John says. Whines, really.

“Hm?”

“Take the jumper back.”

“You’re already wearing it.” Martin pulls on a different one. His second-favorite, John thinks, because about a week in they went to a charity shop and determined not to buy anything they didn’t love.

“I was mesmerized by your stoic gentility.”

“Stoic gentility?”

“Not my best, I must admit, but the point still stands. My incredibly handsome fiance was dressing me with more care than if my ribs were still broken, I was rendered speechless by his charm.”

Martin turns back and steps over to the bed, placing one hand on either side of John and leaning over him. “What if he told you he fancied the blue sweater today and was enjoying watching you enjoying being taken care of so much that he wouldn’t have taken it back anyway?”

“I would ask him to kiss me.” Martin does. “And,” John continues, “let me drive a few kilom-”

“No,” Martin says vehemently.

“Why not?”

“Yellow.”

John makes a noise that irritates even him, but Martin doesn’t budge.

It’s a cold day, it’s always cold. But their coats over jumpers are just enough for the wind, seems like, and when they’ve finally piled into the car John feels very warm and content.

“We’re stopping at the first viable lunch place we see, alright?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re getting real food, please.”

It sounds half-request, half-order, but John only laughs. “I will if you will.”

“I wasn’t hungry yesterday.”

“That’s an absolute lie, you barely ate lunch, and if you don’t cut it out I’m going to start being in charge of the money.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, food money,” John agrees, because, for as much school as he did, Martin’s right, he doesn’t have a great concept of value.

“Does it count as blackmail if neither of us has any reputational stake?”

“I think that’s just leverage.”

“Could always play the broken leg card.”

“You could,” John agrees. “But you won’t. Because A that doesn’t work, I can use the crutches well enough now, and B fucked-up codependence.”

“Don’t know if I like that. Calling it ‘fucked-up’ when it’s keeping us alive.”

John wracks his brain for a better word, a better phrase. “I can’t think of anything better.”

Martin laughs under his breath. “Other half.”

“Oh, no, that makes me think- not that one.”

“Well, symbiosis feels a little close to home, and anything to do with addiction directly is inadvisable for both of us, so...”

“We could maybe go with that possessive ownership thing.”

“Not a chance in hell. I refuse to even imply that for you.”

“I’m not too keen on it, either.” John thinks. “Could just pretend it’s not the cornerstone of our anti-entity success. Or, I guess, the anchor for our humanity. Could just say love of my life, light of my life, heart of my heart.”

“You’re sounding terribly poetic, my love?”

“Am I, husband?”

Martin’s beaming. “Wherever we stop we’re going to confuse the hell out of people if we don’t just pretend.”

“Not really pretending.”

“No, it isn’t.” Martin holds his hand the rest of the stretch.

They stop to eat some of their leftovers with the doors open, even though it’s cold, and then they go for a ten minute walk before starting again. John feels refreshed, and full, and not especially worried, but they will need petrol soon.

“Should be near a town. We haven’t seen one in- ah, what d’you know.”

There’s one coming into view, lights of the houses peeking in and out of the trees at the side of the road. “Hope they’ve got a washing machine.”

Martin laughs. A few minutes later he pulls into an inn, what may well be the only one there is, and then goes to get John’s crutches out of the back.

The woman at the desk smiles at them, and then makes a joke that’s so legitimately lighthearted that John realizes she’s empathizing, and not with the leg, and he hasn’t smiled at a stranger in recent memory but he manages one for the occasion.

After helping John upstairs, Martin goes back for their bags, and John takes in the room. Small, like they usually are. Cozy, but not especially anything one way or another. Just a safe place to sleep in a very, very old building. A very drafty old building. But there is a machine where they can wash their clothes, Martin says when he comes up, and they go back and forth in a ridiculous argument about John helping, and when he finally relents and turns on the TV for a distraction, Martin only goes after kissing him on the cheek.

It’s too cold for skin tonight, but that’s okay. John still twists as close as he can into Martin’s side. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”


	5. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of past scars and medical stuff but it's honestly pretty vague
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I am not a historian

Martin gets a job at one of the few cafes in town, and John, whose options remain limited by the leg, puts a poster in the café window advertising all-ages tutoring. It lets him sit in the corner all day, being plied by Martin with whatever the owner slips him with the insistence ‘that one’s too skinny,’ and they are making enough not to severely impact their travel funds, and Martin insists having less money will be fine, anyway, because they’ve got time to find the right plan.

John is alright with this mostly because his arm is healed, and he’d go at Elias with his bare hands if that was all he had, so even if they can only afford a single trip by the end of this, it doesn’t particularly matter, because John’s going to see that man destroyed if it’s the last thing he does.

In the interest of paranoia, they spend most evenings in the place they rented. It’s semi-detached, and the furniture is old, and the cabinets older, but there is furniture, and there are cabinets, and even though the shower’s small it’s big enough for them to both be in at once.

They’ve settled for the time being in a town near the water, because towns not near the water are smaller and consequently offer fewer temporary jobs and fewer accommodations for people who wish to work them. John is not the one who was stuck in the Lonely, but he is the one who doesn’t like to spend too much time apart from Martin. Within three days of Martin having a job, John starts to walk down the shore to go and see him. Within three days of John having a job, he’s making enough not to feel bad about Martin having to get a job.

They have a one pay-as-you-go phone between them. Basira has the number, and calls it, from different places, maybe dodging Elias, maybe not. She has definitely found something, though she doesn’t mention Daisy by name. John hears something different in her tone, a shifting, and he hopes, prays, even, that her alliance is shifting, too, that she will move just enough outside the Eye’s domain for killing Elias not to hurt her. And besides, John and Martin aren’t trying to destroy the Eye; they’re trying to destroy its right hand. Surely, surely, there is a way not to hurt Basira. He knows there must be if she has slipped, unavoidably, into the Hunt. Even still, he doesn’t want to think she has.

That seemed the nature of it, John thought. Impossible to pursue any part without taking on some of that hunger for the chase yourself. And she was sectioned, she- surely Basira had something else, some other link to weaken the Eye’s claim on her.

They’ve explained how they got it out of John as best they can. He hopes they will have time to make her safe before making their attempt on Elias. Basira jokes- he thinks it’s a joke- that she can always follow Melanie, but John has determined to do everything in his power to avoid yet another sacrifice from her. Basira has given the world enough.

Given that passports are so expensive, and so important, they settle for shitty fake IDs to get by for the moment. They are too much ‘John’ and ‘Martin’ to think of each other as anything else, so they choose a new surname to share and hope that Elias isn’t checking NHS records for everyone in Scotland being treated for broken limbs. By the way they act in town everyone thinks they’re married, anyway; may as well embrace the cover. It also adds an extra layer of entertainment to the jokes they already make, which flow more easily between them than ever before.

John doesn’t like the married jokes. He loves them. There is something implied by the promise, we will be together forever, we will be safe forever, that makes him feel stronger. Maybe it is a romantic view brought on by more good stories of his parents than bad ones. Maybe it is a justified reflection of their entwined wills. Whatever it is, John will never tire of feeling it.

His students call him Mr. Lowry, and when the owner gets mad she calls Martin by his full fake name, and it feels so good John sometimes wonders if they’ll change them later just for the hell of it.

Their days become so easy. So easy to fall into method, and comfort, and a sort of pretending that’s a mockery of itself, because they are more together, in their quest, than they ever really could be if they knew each other any other way.

Except there are still moments. Sweet ones. They cut through the distant haze of planning and worry, slice through that undercurrent so easily John forgets it’s there.

Moments like this. When he tries to kiss each one of Martin’s freckles. Or when Martin ghosts a hand, gently, tenderly, over the healed line from his broken ribs as they stand in the shower. John's ribs are fine, now, only the faintest ache and a barely-visible bruise discoloring his dark skin apart from the scar. He had never paid attention to that warm toned cool toned business until he started getting hurt. He can tell the places not just from scars, but from skin that doesn't quite match.

Martin is careful, always careful, fingers barely touching at all as he makes his way from one end of the scar to the other. The bruises spread beyond it, though, and when John explains the difference between what he thinks is neutral skin and the almost-gone yellow of the bruise, Martin says, “I didn’t realize it went that far back.”

John smiles as Martin traces, with nowhere near enough pressure to hurt, around his side, to his back, up and to his chest again. “Ribs go all the way around.” John knows; he’s lost two.

“I know, I- does it still hurt?”

“Not really. Nothing like the hand, or the worms.” Those scars of theirs match, John notices. For the most part stopping where clothes would. Only John’s got one on his knee and Martin near the center of his back, a centimeter from his left shoulder blade.

Martin’s voice pulls him out of cataloging. “I never asked if you hurt anywhere.”

“I don’t. I would have told you. I promised I would.” Martin is placing careful kisses along his hand now. Light, so light, but John can feel the difference where his lips touch scar tissue instead of unmarred skin.

“Nerves are dead. But not all of them.”

“I’ve never been hurt like that,” Martin says. “Not even top surgery. I was lucky. I healed, some of the nerves came back. I think the worst time I got hurt was when I split my head open, as a baby. I can’t remember it. Only that my mother said that was the last time I wasn’t hopelessly hard-headed.”

“Was it?”

“I think so. I may not have been loud about it, ever, but I’ve never really known myself to be less stubborn.”

“Sometimes you bend. When you need to.”

“Only for you.” Martin inches closer, hand splaying over John’s heart, reminding him it’s there. “You only seem to do it for me.”

“Yes,” John says. “Except I’m worse, because I’m stupid about it.”

“You are stupid about it,” Martin agrees.

“Thank you.”

“Okay, you started it.”

“I did.”

“I don’t think you’d admit that if it wasn’t me.”

“Probably not. Maybe Basira. Because she wouldn’t let me get away with it. Or Daisy for the same reason.”

“Have we heard from them?”

“When have I had the phone?” John asks, then shifts, at Martin’s hand on his shoulder, to rinse his hair.

“When you go to the library while I’m cooking.”

“That only works for, like, an hour,” John points out. “Then I start worrying and come home.”

“When we move in together I’m wasting a lot of money on a ceiling-mounted showerhead so I can wash your hair properly.”

“This is fine,” John says, content.

“You’re getting conditioner in your eyes-”

“No, I’m not, they’re fine, s- ow. Martin, can you please-” Martin is already spraying him in the face. When he lets up, John spits, hoping it’s in Martin’s direction, and says, “Thanks.” He opens his eyes to find Martin starting to shake with laughter, and then John’s laughing too, except you can’t laugh this hard in the shower, the floor is slippery, and they barely both fit in there together anyway with John’s stupid broken leg, and- “Okay, okay, no, Martin, I really don’t want to rebreak my ribs.”

And they are steady again.

Something has been bothering John, though he hasn’t wanted to break their fragile peace by bringing it up. Except, he knows he must; he knows that no matter how much of a mystery this remains, they need to talk about it, because they need to be ready for it to become important.

“Does it bother you that there are no more tapes?”

“All the time,” Martin says with a laugh. He shifts, putting down his book and turning to face John, cross-legged, on the sofa. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes they felt like the Eye, sometimes they felt like Elias, sometimes they felt like me. But they didn’t always- why would they turn on so early? Why did they need to know what was happening in Elias’s jail cell, or all those other times, those spare minutes- the, the birthday party-” he cuts off. “And they were mine and Gertrude’s. But no one else’s, at least not- there’s no evidence of them existing before Gertrude. But the technology wasn’t really there for much longer before, so I don’t- I can’t parse it,” John says. “Can’t make sense of it.”

“Do we know anything about the history beyond Elias being behind it all?”

“No. I’m not exactly employee of the month, case you haven’t noticed.”

Martin snorts. “Oh, no, come on. Okay, if we can’t figure that out… the recorders, did they ever appear for Gertrude?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, they could have, but-” John thinks, tries to remember. Think, think, come on, you- “Ah!” He blinks. He’s on the floor.

“-okay? John?” Martin is kneeling next to him, all concern.

John nods. “I, uh. I’m fine. I just felt… a pull. It’s not, I’m not, I’m still here, I’m still me, it isn’t here with us, I just- felt it. For a second.”

Martin looks on the edge of panic. But he trusts. “Okay. Alright. Was it just- thinking too hard?”

“I think so. I wanted access I couldn’t have, and I was frustrated, it… I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

Martin’s expression shifts. “You can’t stop yourself from wanting to know things, John.”

“Do you-” John hesitates.

“Yes. Every once in a while. We can’t really get rid of them, not… not completely. They’re part of us. Part of everyone. The potential has to be there, even if we never use it. Makes us human, right? The fact we can feel them at all?”

“I suppose… I suppose you’re right.” John relaxes, leans against the sofa. Martin’s on the floor next to him, holding his hand. “Still doesn’t explain the tapes.”

“Do you think Gertrude used them more often? That you didn’t see them because Elias hid them all from you?”

“Maybe. But they’ve got no equivalent. There isn’t much capable of recording before Gertrude, and I don’t… they _are_ technology. But the statements don’t like technology, they refuse to be captured by it. What’s different about the tapes? Why are they okay?”

“Electric versus mechanical, maybe? Digital versus physical?”

“That’s definitely something. Is it- is technology too willful? I mean, artificial intelligence and… the Extinction? Like, computers might replace us. That’s a real fear. But tapes can’t do anything without people to play them. Digital data is… different, right?”

“Yep. If you’re talking about the semantic web, especially.”

John turned to him. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember, that was-”

“Data being universal so the computers can figure shit out without us. Or rather, so we can find larger patterns, but it… they’re getting smarter anyway. Better faster easier. Less for us to do. Predictive tech and all that.”

“Yes. Right.” John shakes his head. “We’re going to have to work on that next, aren’t we? Stopping the Extinction?”

“If we can stop it. I don’t think… I don’t think we can. Just. Keep preventing rituals. Keep surviving.”

“Surviving,” John says.

“We’re good at that. You and I. Humanity.”

“I’m so tired, Martin.”

“I know, John.”

“D’you think, after this… do you think we can find people? Who want to keep doing this, to keep… keep humanity alive, I guess, without them even realizing it?”

“Sure, John. There’ll always be someone. And we’ve, er, got a pretty decent recruitment file back in London, come to think of it. And even if we can’t, it’s more about preventing another him, right? So that’s... not much. In the grand scheme.”

John decides now’s not the best time to remind him that they might have to blow up the archive. Recruitment file or not, it is a stronghold for the Eye, so maybe that’s a good thing no matter what. And that wasn’t even- tape recorders. “Weren’t we talking about tape recorders? Wasn’t that the point of this discussion?”

“Have we seen one lately?”

“No.”

“Then I think…” Martin sighs. “I think we’ve got to prioritize.”

“Defeat Elias and recruit new us?”

“Defeat Elias and recruit new us,” Martin agrees.

“And tell them what they’re in for. And have backup plans.”

“Think we could get dental insurance, too?”

John snorts. “Right, yeah, sure the fear aligned families will love to keep supporting us then.”

“Think we can lie to them. Think we have it in us.”

“I think _you_ can lie to them. I’m terrible at it.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

John nods against Martin’s shoulder, where his head has come to rest without him realizing it. God, he’s tired. “Nobody with any vested interest in academia- or wealth, for that matter- should be allowed the position.”

“The position of-”

“Head of the Institute, yes. Or… whatever we come up with to replace it.”

“Didn’t think we could think that far ahead.”

“Neither did I. But we’ve got to. It’s the only way to think. Believe something’s after.”

“Right. The car. Let those who come after not make our mistakes.”

“Martin Blackwood, 2019.”

Martin laughs. Then, “D’you want to go to bed?”

“Need to think of something relaxing first.”

“How about I read to you this time?”

“Okay.”

If John can have nothing else, no peace, no clarity, he would be satisfied with this. With Martin’s voice being the first thing he heard every morning and the last before going to sleep.

It is good to be in a bigger town, because bigger towns have libraries, and libraries have computers where they can sit side by side and discuss their plans and not have to worry more than a little about whether Elias is watching, because it would be stupid for them to get a computer, anyway, they might need that money for something else.

As it is there are quite a few places they may need to go. Namely, places they know have had civilization for a very long time and may, with further research, prove to house Institute counterparts. This is an educated guess based on the Alexandria statement, and their knowledge that there are sister institutes all over the world, even if they aren’t easy to spot at first glance. John and Martin of all people would know what to look for.

“The ancient strongholds of civilization,” John says, “are-”

“Wait. I want to see if I know them.”

John waits, perking up more, if that’s even possible, at Martin’s enthusiasm.

“China, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And Mesopotamia, or, where is that, Iraq?”

“Correct. Got a few more. Well, a few more known ones, let’s not discuss the potential failures of academia.” John rolls his eyes.

“Er- was it ancient Maya?”

“Yes. I think... well, technically you’ve got two more, but I count three.”

Martin smiles fondly. “Is your third one the Phoenicians? Lebanon, right?”

John blushes and beams like an idiot, but doesn’t say anything. Because being good translators hardly counts as being an ancient stronghold of civilization, but he thinks there’s something to be said about the history in the region, anyway, and Martin must have listened when he ranted about it and it’s really very sweet that Martin listens because most people lose interest and John wouldn’t blame him if he did, too. Except of course he listened, because he’s Martin.

“Okay. I didn’t actually ever take a class on this, nor was I at one point omniscient, so you’re going to need to clue me in on the other two.”

“Egypt.”

“Damnit!” Martin looks around after swearing, but the only other person in the building is the librarian, who isn’t paying any attention to them at all.

John pretends that’s definitely true, pretends that everyone who lays eyes on them isn’t a threat, and says, “I know. The timelines get confusing, there was so much going on at once, it- Egypt and the Indus Valley, or areas of India and Pakistan.”

“Again, obvious. Why we don’t learn this in primary is beyond me.”

“Well. Might be better, not to foster a hankering for ancient knowledge.”

After a moment of contemplation, Martin shakes his head. “Nah. You turned out fine.”

“Right,” John says, trying to keep the blush from returning. “Oldest places people have lived. Oldest places people have collected knowledge, or some of them, anyway. You might remember the statement about that- Archivist- thing in Alexandria?”

“Remember? John, I have you-related nightmares about it.”

“Martin-”

“No, don’t apologize, just get to the point. Which, I’m assuming, is that if there is an archive with enough knowledge to defeat him, it’s going to be in one of those places. Probably. Come to think of it I’m guessing your mention of academic failures has to do with the massive voids of knowledge of native people who were colonized, which did enough harm to the Mayans anyw- yes. Got it. How do we pick the best place?”

John loves him. “I love you.”

“Been over this, John.”

“Yes, yes. Research.”

“What kind?”

“Best we can manage finding Institute counterparts without any of the eldritch connections we had before.”

“You mean really weird Google searches leading to weirder forum searches leading to contact information?”

“You’re the smartest. If it wasn’t woefully unfair I wouldn’t bother. Just have you work it all out, wouldn’t be getting myself almost killed so often.”

“Don’t say things like that. You’ll get my hopes up.”

They sit. They chat. They exchange casual touches. They read. They dig. John glances, occasionally, at the bottom right of the screen. Sees an hour tick by. Looks up the same moment Martin does.

“What do you think?” Martin asks. “Because I think Guatemala’s got some stuff going on that’d make it very stupid to visit there, but as for the other places, it’s clear there’s potential, I just couldn’t parse- I mean, you’ve been to, what, the Chinese archive? And they weren’t exactly welcoming, you said. Or, well, welcoming, maybe, but not helpful.”

John sighs. “I think we’ve got to go to Pakistan. I think that’s our best shot.”

“Um… that sounds… maybe a little risky, too?”

“We have a few other options. Back to China, where, you’re right, I don’t think they like me, don’t know if it’s willingness or ability, but probably better not to put all our eggs there. Could try Egypt, but there’s no more solid evidence there than there is for Pakistan.”

“That’s what I thought. An Institute of sorts, but it isn’t- I dunno, robust-sounding.”

“Exactly. We also have other options, but they’re less solid. Lebanon is risky, if nearly as promising. And then there’s Iraq.”

“Ah, yeah.” Martin’s expression made it clear he felt the same way about that John did; another hotbed of political unrest, off the table.

“There’s evidence we have a sister organization in Pakistan, whether or not that’s bad for surveillance. Or we could go to Egypt. Same problem. No way of knowing the surveillance levels, though it seems like someone in our same-” John pauses a second, to laugh, “-web. In Lebanon there’s a refugee crisis, which, alright, Pakistan seems to have a lot of political turnover, and Egypt’s been in a state of unrest for a while, I just- I can’t tell which is the least volatile?”

Martin sighs. “And we can’t get in contact with any of them, because the second we do the clock starts on Elias actually running out of immortal patience and coming after us.”

“Yes.”

“And our chances of being able to visit more than one suck, because once he knows where we are he’ll be able to guess what we’re doing. So we’re working on luck and faith.”

“Yes.”

Martin pushes a hand up under his glasses, rubs his eyes, asks, “What’s older?”

“Pakistan. That’s the oldest place, out of all of the ones I found. Did you find any evidence to the -”

“Nope. The, ah, the monastery, right?” Martin pulls up a page for a potential institute counterpart.

John’s spent a good fifteen minutes scouring the same one. “Yes. They say that their building is oldest, but the location, too, it- it feels like they’ve been there a long time.”

Martin spends a moment staring at the page. Then he says, “Looks like we’re going to Pakistan. Visa will take a couple days, though. Think the stop-over in London will be a problem?”

“Not if our passports work.” John frowns. “And I’m not too keen on having to linger, but you’re right, I don’t think we can get in without stopping at the embassy first. Hopefully Elias won’t be keeping a lookout there, and if he is…”

“If he is we’ll be on our way before he can stop us. Right,” Martin says, looking a little panicked at that. “Great.” They were set to get the passports tomorrow, via their post office box in town.

John cannot get over how easy it was to buy them, once Martin found a way around the library computer security. “It’ll be alright. We’ve got to buy tickets in advance anyway. Not like we can afford not to. We’ll just look like two regular passengers. Nothing suspicious, no last-minute cash exchanged at the counter. Perfectly above board.”

“Yep. Of course.”

John put a hand on his knee to stop it bouncing. “We have our originals. To compare them.”

“Uh huh.”

“Martin. Look at me.”

He does.

“We’re going to be alright. Think of it as a honeymoon.”

Martin snorts. “Right. Yeah.”

“No, come on, look, come on...” John searches up the weather. “Twenty-five to thirty degrees? It’ll be a proper holiday, then.”

Martin laughs. “We’ll need to buy sunscreen.”

“It’ll be good. Get a hotel room, try some new food. Lovely.”

“Okay, yeah. A change of scene would be nice.”

“Mhmm.”

“Gonna see some old village and... what was it? A monastery?”

“Yes. Or, well, there is a monastery, the ruins of one, except I’m willing to bet whoever there believed in any of this-” John cuts off with a laugh. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? They’d all have believed, they were monks. Well. Maybe all. I’d be a monk, possibly, if I lived that long ago.”

“Yep. And you’re willing to bet what?” Martin’s voice was calmer now, gaze less frantic, fondness creeping in.

“They’re the ones who started it. Their institute. So I’m guessing it’s still them. The same order. I mean, I can’t tell if they’ve got anyone else working for them, but according to the website I’d say they’re still monks.”

“Didn’t look like they were hiring research assistants, either.”

“No, it didn’t. Although they do give tours.”

“Nice little thirty-degree tour around some monastic ruins. I must admit, as honeymoons go, that is very us.”

“I thought you were going to say it was very me.”

“Well, I mean, I could, but I’ve been doing this stuff for how long now? Four years? More than that. And I still like it, setting aside the really awful supernatural bits, so I think it’s safe to say all this research and history and travelling to the oldest known centers of civilization is us, now.”

“I love you so much.”

Martin smiles. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay. Good. Long as that’s settled.”

They buy their tickets for the first week of April. John knows this is stupid, because he’s getting his cast off days before, but he’s plied the doctor with flattery, begging, and frequent mentions of a family emergency. He is finally given the all-clear, after promising he’ll stick to a wheelchair at the airport and keep the brace on and continue using crutches and doing all the PT the doctor showed him and under no circumstances is he to overexert himself.

Mostly John just hopes he doesn’t end up re-breaking the leg.

The arthritis is bad enough that he doesn’t want to put too much weight on it anyway, so he considers that a small blessing as he rises from the library computer. Even if not wanting to move too much is antithetical to making his arthritis and his leg feel better. “Twelve hundred pounds,” John says.

Martin stands, too, hand ready for John if he needs it, but not reaching, in case he doesn’t. “Sounds about right. Not bad, though. For the fate of the planet.”

John snorts. Then, “We’re going to have to walk, you know? Five or six times at least. On the plane.” Because as much as John embraces relaxation, he is willing to bet functioning limbs will be an advantage in his and Martin’s attack on Elias.

“I know,” Martin says.

“If you make that face on the plane I’m stealing your chocolate.”

Instead of asking what face, because Martin knows it’s the helping-John-and-being-upset-about-his-unavoidable-pain-I’m-fine-really-Martin face, he asks, “What chocolate?”

“It’s a long flight, Martin, we’ll have to buy chocolate beforehand. Absolutely necessary.” John takes his hand and starts pulling him towards the door. He’s grateful he can actually do this now, with his formerly-broken arm free to hold the crutch, and nothing threatening to fuck up his balance but his own clumsiness.

Martin grips just this side of too-tight. Reassurance. “Right, okay. But that’ll just mean you eating more, which, until you actually stop looking a little bit ill all the time, will always be a good thing.”

“High praise. A little bit ill all the time?”

“You’ve still got a broken leg, first of all. And second, yeah. Stand by it. You’re sleeping like shit and everything, but you’re still kind of hot. You’ve always looked a bit ill. And it makes me want to take care of you. Protective instinct, or something. And you always appreciate it so much.”

“You calling me hot for remaining criminally underweight is not-”

“That’s not what I meant, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know that’s not what you meant,” John concedes. “If I thought it was I would have said ‘yellow.’ But I’m stealing your chocolate anyway. Though I really do think you’ll make the face.”

“I will _try_ not to make the face.”

John doesn’t let go of his hand until they’re at the car.


	6. April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No important CWs except John mentioning he gets nervous on airplanes (not to a doctor) and a very honest (not detailed) discussion of childhoods alongside a nod to John's previously less-than-optimistic outlook. He is better now, they are better now, I would never hurt him or Martin they have been through enough.

John finally gets the cast off.

Between the break and the arthritis he’s going to need a brace for at least a month, but the relief of all the lightness and freedom of movement and being able to shower alone if he wants to, even though he probably won’t, and Martin probably won’t let him, is second only to the Eye leaving him.

“Think that’s a bit of an overstatement?” Martin asks as they get in the car to head back from the doctor’s. “Nothing else relieving ever happen to you? Graduating, maybe?”

“Graduating was not a relief, I didn’t know if I had a job yet.”

“I thought you started working right out of uni?”

“I did, but it wasn’t finalized.”

“Ah, yes. Jobs that need finalizing. Salaries. I get the money thing, I really do, but is it really worth it?”

“School sure as fuck wasn’t,” John says matter-of-factly. “Especially given I’m now using my life savings to have a chance at having a life.” It is true and hilarious and it makes him want to scream.

“D’you ever wish we were slightly worse people, or slightly less angry ones, and we could just fuck off to the continent and pretend Elias never existed?” The question is a bit of a surprise, coming from Martin.

But then John thinks that’s the joy of him. His capacity to continue to surprise John. “Sometimes. Don’t think he’d let us go that easily, though.”

“Probably not, no.” Martin is smiling.

“You’re too good to do that anyway. Not- I mean, you deserve it, god you deserve it, Martin, I just-”

“I know what you mean. I’d say the same about you, though.”

John laughs. “Now _that_ is an overstatement.”

“Oh, hush. You’re decent enough. Taking me all the way to Pakistan to save the world.”

“We are, aren’t we?” John says. It is sinking in, now he can mostly walk on his own, what they’re about to do.

“Wouldn’t be us if we weren’t.”

That has John laughing, and then they’re both laughing, all the way back to the house they’ve already started moving out of.

They need to stop over in London for a few days so the embassy can process their visas.

The waiting is awful.

They occupy a mediocre double room near King’s Cross with the beds pushed together. The strain on their finances does not worry Martin, who accounted for it, but for the first time, maybe because they’re relying on fake passports that took a massive chunk out of their funds and they can only afford to fuck up once, if that, John is convinced something’s going to go wrong.

He paces.

“We can go for a walk, you know,” Martin says.

“No, we can’t.” Elias is so close John can practically smell him. The proximity makes his skin crawl.

“If he’s seen us it won’t matter. If he’s seen us he’s already decided-”

“I know,” John says.

“So get some air?”

John stops, inhales, tries to keep from losing control of his breathing. Starts to pace again. “I don’t want to take unnecessary risks. Not when we could be on the edge of actually finding what we need.”

“What if we don’t find what we need?”

“I’d say China. Not because we’re going that way anyway, just- if the shot in the dark doesn’t work, should we be taking the same risk?”

“I don’t know. But it won’t be entirely in the dark.”

John freezes, stares at him.

“It may not be an institute, but there’s definitely something in Pakistan. Just like there’s definitely something in Egypt and probably something anywhere else people have been, because your theory makes sense. But that page felt…”

“Off,” John says. “Yes.”

“That was why we picked it.”

“That was why we picked it,” echoes John. Then, because Martin looks something- distraught, maybe?- he sits on the bed next to him and takes his hand. “Don’t need an entity to follow your instincts.”

“Instincts are supposed to be good, aren’t they?”

“I’ve always hoped so,” John says, wondering how foolish that is, after everything he’s gotten himself into.

“Like to think it was instinct that brought me to you.”

John hums and leans on his shoulder.

“Want to watch something shitty and try to feel okay being sitting ducks again?”

John closes his eyes. “We weren’t very good sitting ducks at the safe house, were we?”

“No.”

“But we can still try.”

Martin makes a pleased sound at this acquiescence and drags John into a more comfortable spot.

John tries to keep himself in this moment, right now, with Martin’s warmth surrounding him and his laughter reverberating through John’s back, with the city going on uncaring outside their window, uncaring, and with Elias, wherever he is, for now, at least, unable to see them.

John can live with that for now.

It is both refreshing and maddening to watch Martin not be allowed to push his wheelchair at the airport.

He’s chatting and smiling like normal, but he keeps clenching his fists like he wants something to do with his hands. If it wouldn’t be so inconvenient for the woman helping them, John would just hold one. Only sometimes the traffic gets bad. Idina, who has worked for the airport for years, knows how to handle it. Martin does well, too, actually; when they get to the gate he explains it’s to do with fading into crowds.

“Weird skill to have. Nice, though.” He’s standing, because they’re early enough that the area’s crowded with people for other flights, and John wishes he could just pull Martin down into his lap, but knowing his luck John would manage to do it in a way that’d rebreak his long-healed ribs, and then they wouldn’t be allowed on the plane.

“I wish I could do that. I think I blend in a bit too much. I don’t make space for myself, I just- get in the way.”

“You could never,” Martin says.

“Take your word for it. Want to go shopping? We need chocolate, at least.”

Martin smiles and goes around to push the chair, and they go all the way back to where there is shopping, and they only get lost twice.

John is not especially fond of planes.

He knows they are necessary, and he tolerates them, but there is something about being so far away from the ground in a small space with too many people that-

John doesn’t like planes.

“You okay?” Martin has been listening to some Urdu tracks they’d had to buy a memory card to fit on the phone, mouthing phrases, but he pulls off his headphones and settles all his attention on John.

How did he do that? “Yes.”

“Do you want to watch a movie? Or learn something?”

“Not particularly. Too much on my mind.”

“Do you one better.” Martin shifts to face him as much as he can in the confined space.

They’re in the aisle row, John on the end seat and Martin the middle. John doesn’t know how Martin knew that seat would be easier for him. He just did. John puts up the armrest so he can slide closer. “What?”

“Let’s build a house.”

“I- really?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather stay in London forever, which, okay-”

“No, I-” John hesitates. “I want to find one. An old one. A loved one. With history there apart from ours.”

Martin thinks for a moment, then says, “I know what you mean. And that... would be nice, I think.”

“We can still-”

“No, that’s better,” Martin insists. “But we still need to decide where to live.”

“Not London?”

“No, not unless you-”

“Not London,” John says. “But there has to be stuff. I can’t... not the highlands.”

“Edinburgh?”

“The first statement I recorded was from Edinburgh. The Web.”

Martin’s expression changes. “What about where we-” but he cuts off when John shakes his head.

“No,” John says. “We can live in Edinburgh. It’s far enough away, but there’s still...”

“Stuff?” Martin smiles.

“Yeah. There’s still stuff.”

Martin raises a hand to John’s neck where it meets his shoulder. Light, feather light, not hurting but making him aware how tense he’s gotten. “Try and relax?”

“Yes, I-” John stops. Looks down at the seats. Locates a way to snuggle up to Martin without hurting his leg.

Martin wraps his arms around him. “There you go. We’ll live in Edinburgh, then?”

“Somewhere on the edge of town. An old house. At least a hundred.”

“At least,” Martin agrees. “And not big.”

“No. A cottage. Just big enough to fit- we'll have a lot of books, won’t we? And CDs?”

“Absolutely,” Martin says, smile audible. “Shelves all along the walls in the lounge. No room for art.”

“We can put art in the bathroom.”

“Sure. How much work will we have to do on the place?”

“So much,” John says. “The kitchen still has a fireplace.”

“Of course it does. Will we use it?”

“Dunno. Depends how good of cupboards we can find, because-” John yawns, “-the place is so old it’s never had them.”

“Bet there’s a fireplace in every room.”

“There is. We’ve got radiators but we never use them if we’ve got the firewood.”

“Have we got the firewood?”

“Oh, yes. Every few days we take a drive into the country and-” John yawns again, “-buy firewood. And look for more shitty paperbacks.”

“Do we keep them all?”

“Haven’t got room. I do have taste.”

“Yes, of course.”

“No, we only keep the good ones,” John says. “The ones we might read again someday.”

“Will we listen to Maroon 5?”

“Only the good ones. And we’ll have a wooden floor that’s great for dancing, and the music will fill the whole house, and-” yawn, “-and I’ll turn it on right before you get home. So you’ll come through the door- short, probably, you’ll have to duck a little- you'll come through the door and I’ll be waiting.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“It does.”

“Going to sleep?”

“Only for a little while.”

John sleeps for much more of the flight than he thought he could. He thinks Martin sleeps, too, but less, nodding off after all the cabin lights have been extinguished and John has finally given in and turned on a movie. He tried to learn a few phrases, like ‘where is the bathroom’ and ‘thank you for the food,’ but he didn’t want to say anything out loud and wake Martin, or, worse, any of their neighbors. At least the movie isn’t disturbing anyone. Well. Might be disturbing John a little. He’s reasonably certain they passed some of the antagonists’ ilk on their way to the non-luxury part of the plane, and the thought that they’re buying out jewelry stores while he and Martin save the world for them is somewhat disheartening.

Still going to save the world, though. And that was a decent fashion montage. The actors were good, and the one playing the best friend was really leaning into the role.

By the time their descent starts Martin’s wide awake again. John’s starting to get nervous, all the plane anxiety gone, replaced by nerves about what they’ll be facing when they finally reach their destination.

Martin takes his hand.

It helps.

Their hotel is on Naway Adda Road, one of many in the street. John is rather proud of them for having managed to get there without getting lost, even if they did probably end up getting a bit too high a room fee. The woman at the desk spoke English, so it wasn’t like John wasn’t going to take advantage of that before they got out of the city.

“I think it was fine. Just one night. Doesn’t seem that bad.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, Martin. You’re the one of us who can do maths.”

They’d got a double room and had already pushed the beds together. John felt a prickling in the back of his mind, at that, but it had seemed the right thing, and like as not he’d end up curled around Martin like a cat by morning, anyway. Air con is working well enough for that.

“We’re going to need real food,” Martin says, hoisting the suitcase onto the dresser and opening it.

They have that and a backpack; John still has crutches, after all. “Is it bad I’m tired?”

“No.” Martin takes their toiletry bag into the bathroom. “I’m exhausted.”

“You hardly slept. I was out most of the flight.”

“But you were up so long before the layover.”

“Still slept too much.” John offers Martin a challenging look as he reenters the room.

Martin only sighs. “That’ll be your new job. In Edinburgh. Sleeping.”

“Sleeping isn’t a job.”

“It is when you’ve got so much catching up to do.”

“Then you’re just as guilty as I am. At least of that.”

“Mmm, don’t.” Martin comes to sit beside him on the end of the bed. Takes his hand. “You’re speaking ill of my boyfriend. Yellow.”

“That’s husband to you.”

“Of course, right. A- you know what? We’re eating up here. I don’t want you on the stairs again.”

John rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine on the stairs.”

“Take a nap, and I’ll bring back food.”

“Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, will you?”

John sighs, says, quiet, “Don’t want to get separated.”

“Here, give me your watch, and you keep the phone.” Martin trades him. “I know the number. I’ll be back in less than an hour, I promise. And if something happens, I’ll call you. Okay? And then after this we don’t ever have to separate again.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Well, obviously, when we move to Edinburgh we’re going to have to or the shopping’ll take forever-”

“Martin.”

“Really, John. I promise. We won’t separate again unless you want to.”

John feels his expression twist. “But what if you n-”

“If I need to be alone we’ll talk about it. Okay?”

John sighs. “Yes, alright.”

Martin kisses him on the forehead and goes out.

John can’t help it. He paces.

When Martin comes back, thirty-four minutes later, he’s carrying a stack of three takeaway containers and a plastic bag. It smells wonderful and John is starving. John goes over to help, but Martin only lets him divest him of the bag. It’s full of fruit and junk food.

“That’s provisions. This is dinner.” Martin sets the containers on the bed and unstacks them, then opens the lids. One is filled with fried chicken, another with piping-hot naan, and the third with a type of stew over rice.

John sits on the bed, careful not to dislodge their precious containers, and immediately rips off a piece of naan to dip in the stew. When he tastes it, his eyes go wide.

“Good?”

John nods and keeps eating.

Martin laughs and passes him a water bottle, which was hiding under the fruit, and pulls out another for himself. “Any clue what it is?”

John shakes his head. He comes up for air long enough to say, “You’re gonna need the rice, though.”

“And what does that mean?” Before John can answer, he goes for a bite. The second it’s down, Martin is coughing. John passes him some bread, which he follows with water. “Okay. I mean, I’ve eaten out with you, so that’s not that bad.”

“The tomatoes are better. And this doesn’t smell spicy,” John reasons, ripping off a piece of chicken.

Martin raises his eyebrows hopefully.

“You can definitely eat this,” John says.

Martin takes some chicken. His face doesn’t contort when he tastes it. Instead he hums in contentment. “This is good. They said this one was sweet and that one was smoky, but not too spicy. I got a so-so hand gesture when I asked.”

“It isn’t that bad if you didn’t grow up on exclusively British food.”

“Did your grandmother cook?”

“All the time. Could’ve argued that for coming with you, I stand a chance of recognizing some of the food, probably. We only got takeaway when she had doctor’s appointments. Or when I did, though aside from being almost legally blind I didn’t have to go very often.”

“Yeah, your vision’s extra-bad. Are your eyes too fucked-up for surgery?”

“Definitely. But how did you kn-”

Martin holds up a finger for each reason. “When you had to take them off at work you’d always be livid for the three seconds it took to clean them, I’ve seen you completely miss a doorway once or twice because they’d fallen down your nose, I have absolutely tried them on while you were sleeping, you had three pairs even though most people only go with two-”

“Okay, okay, point taken, I’m blind. What about you?”

“Surgery is expensive and a pain in the arse, and I think contacts are kind of disgusting.”

“Fair. How have we never talked about this?”

“Well, recently we were planning our life together, we’re going to have a cottage in Edinburgh, and it’ll be extremely old, and between what you said on the plane and your capitulating to sleep being a job-”

“I did not!”

“-it seems as though I’m going to be getting a nice job somewhere in the city, possibly in a non-deadly archive, and you’ll be the stay-at-home parent to our cats.”

“We’re getting cats?”

“Yes, two of them. So they aren’t lonely when you go and do whatever it is you’ll find for a hobby. I’m pretty convinced it’s going to be yarn crafts, but you could always surprise me and become a painter.”

John screws up his face. “No. Don’t think the cats’ll need me all day, though.”

“Then you’ll work in a local bookshop. Burn the occasional Leitner before anyone else lays a hand on it. Or return to tutoring, because believe it or not you’re actually really good with kids, come to think of it I do believe it, not only because I’ve seen you but because you respect them as human beings, which is what they are.”

“I never felt like one. As a kid. I felt like I’d been dropped in from somewhere else. Like my raging curiosity and pursuit of knowledge meant I must be an alien, or something.” John shoves more food in his mouth to keep from saying anything else, and because, somehow, he is managing to still be hungry even though they’re discussing this. It’s Martin, he’s talking to Martin, he could say anything to Martin, would tell him anything if he asked.

“I think that’s why you’re good with them. Because you don’t think of them as something else. They’re just people, only smaller and sometimes stupider- but let’s be honest, not in your case, I love you but _really_ , John- and more dependent on instinct than- huh. Yeah. I definitely see where your personality intercepts with being good with kids."

“I’ve never really thought about it before. Didn’t think I wanted them, and after things fell apart with Georgie I just...” stopped thinking about it at all, he doesn’t say. Stopped thinking he’d end up with anyone, as time went on, because he didn’t get along with people, they never clicked, and then he was in mortal danger all the time, so-

“John.”

John looks up. “Hm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Do you want to talk about this?” Martin’s voice is gentle. Always so gentle. And he doesn’t expect anything, doesn’t want John to make any sort of reply if he doesn’t want to, and he’s always so good, how is he always so good, they’re probably going to be dead a month from now and they both had such horrible childhoods and John’s never tried to reconcile himself, after the fears, with the possibility of making a good one for someone else, and- “Breathe, John.”

John breathes.

Martin’s hand is on his back, stroking warm circles. “Are you alright?”

John nods. “I’m- Martin, I- I never thought I’d have this. I never thought I’d have you.”

“I’m here, John. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, I- I know. I know.” John takes a deep breath, steady again.

“You want me to put away the food?”

“Fuck, no,” John says, already reaching for it again. “You’ve managed to get me eating like a Victorian street urchin.”

“You don’t look like a skeleton anymore,” Martin says, patting his cheek. “Are we changing the subject?”

“No- yes- I don’t know, Martin. Green. Just. Is that something you’d want?”

“Kids?”

John nods.

“Not if you don’t.”

“That wasn’t the question,” John says, rather inelegantly, around his latest bite.

“I don’t know if I can take you seriously w-”

John gulps a swig of water and says, “Do you want me to stop eating?”

“No.”

“Do you want to keep talking about this?”

“Yes.”

John makes an ‘I rest my case’ shrug and drains the water bottle. “I’m definitely serious. Green?”

“Yeah, green. I, um- yes. I do want kids. I froze eggs, actually, in case- I held out hope. Longer than you did. Still am, really. About staying alive.”

“I think we’ll make it through this. You know that, Martin? Just because I didn’t, for a while, doesn’t mean I don’t think that way now.” John is holding his gaze, tracking every slight change in expression, ignoring the distant stab of want from that deep dark corner of his mind, the one that reminds him he could know, could feel Martin’s emotions in the air, if only he let it in.

“I know.”

“And even if I can’t hold more in my mind right now than surviving this- even if I can’t give you an answer- I'm thinking about it, okay? And whatever you want to do, however you’d want to do it, I- that would be okay with me.”

Martin melts. “I know, John.”

“Okay,” and John can’t help it, he’s climbing into Martin’s lap, “Good.” A second later, though, Martin’s arms are shaking where they’re wrapped around him, so John pulls back and asks, “Green?” only to look up and find Martin laughing.

Well. He's crying too. “I love you.”

“Oh, is that all?” And John tucks his head back into Martin’s neck.

“Are you done with dinner?”

John glances over at the takeaway containers, which he has well and truly annihilated, and nods.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“For finishing dinner?”

“For being well,” Martin says, and the surge of warmth that runs though him, the feeling of being loved to the ends of his fingertips-

“You know,” John says, failing to keep the waver out of his voice, “There’s also adoption.”

“We could be foster parents.”

“Be damn good foster parents, we’re uniquely qualified.”

They laugh, for a bit, and then Martin says, “Hey, John?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Wait, for real?” John twists back to look at him.

“Yes, for real,” Martin says. “We’ve only been pretending, what, months? But I’ve gotten kind of used to it. Don’t know I want to give it up.” And then, because he’s Martin, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring.

John is frozen for a second, then says, “Of course I’ll marry you, I thought I was supposed to be the stupid one,” and kisses Martin senseless before he can even put it on. After a few seconds, John pulls back. “Okay. Yes. I am definitely the stupid one.”

“Still love you, though,” Martin says, and pecks him on the side of the mouth. “And this’ll be a hilarious story, if we live.”

“Mark of a good relationship is that you can be absolutely disgusting around each other and it doesn’t make you like each other any less.”

“I like that distinction. Love versus like. It takes the whole forced cohabitation thing and laughs in its face.”

“If we have biological kids I still pray they get your brains.”

“Okay, Mr. Lowry, yellow, you’re insulting my husband.”

“We aren’t married yet.”

“Who cares?” Martin says, and puts the ring on John’s finger. It is tarnished silver, as likely to be steel as anything else, and it just fits, John’s going to have to move it to another finger or it’ll definitely fall off, but it’s perfect.

John gets as into Martin’s space as he can and closes his eyes.

“You can’t fall asleep here, John. We need to clean up. And if I don’t force you to brush your teeth you’ll kill me tomorrow.”

“Carry me?”

“Lazy,” Martin teases, and lifts him.

“No, no, I was kidding, Martin, you don’t-”

“If you keep eating like this I might have to start lifting weights.”

John makes a noise.

“That was a compliment. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”

“I didn’t say yellow,” John grumbles. “Even if the Victorian street urchin in me is a little offended.”

“I don’t want to make you feel bad, _ever_ -”

“You didn’t, Martin. I’m joking. I’d never lie to you. Green.”

Martin hums and sets him on the tile. “Our toothbrushes are in the other bag, hold on.”

“You could’ve brought them if you hadn’t carried me.”

“Oh, don’t, you enjoyed it.”

Jon is unable to argue.

Jamal Garhi was the nearest town with a promising array of accommodations. They could have tried to stay in the village itself, but the place was so small they couldn’t be sure it would have a room for them.

“Why didn’t the monks come here?” Martin asks.

Jamal Garhi wasn’t a metropolis, but it had more to offer, John was guessing, than the actual middle of nowhere countryside. “Dunno. I mean, they could still be monks. Like, legitimate ones, apart from all the entity stuff.”

“Fair enough. Suppose monks wouldn’t find all this very peaceful.” Martin nods to the street.

“No. And there might be something down there. I mean, let’s hope not some _one_ something, like Alexandria, but... something. Like in the Black Forest?”

“Ahh, I wouldn’t,” Martin says, tilting his head towards a CCTV.

“Right. Room. Wait for the room. And this is going to be excruciating, I don’t know Urdu very well at all.”

“We learnt some on the plane.”

“You learnt some on the plane. Meanwhile I-” but before John can finish the sentence, Martin is striding up to the desk.

He asks, in what sounded like very good Urdu for someone who’d known it only a few days, something about a room and a taxi. John also caught ‘two nights,’ though the rest is beyond him.

The man at the desk, who seems a little surprised at Martin’s good pronunciation but also a little pleased by it, offers a price and says something about a phone number for a taxi. He then takes Martin’s money with a nod, and a joke, and both he and Martin laugh, and it’s all John can do to keep a straight face ‘til they make it to the stairs.

“I’m never traveling without you again,” John says.

“That’s true, but it seems a bit of an overstatement for _that_.”

“I’m serious. _That_ was so good I nearly swooned, and I can’t even tell, officially, I’m not omniscient or fluent in Urdu.”

“I wasn’t that good, honestly.”

“Martin, you were excellent.” They’d made it to their floor, Martin going red as John stepped past him into the room. “I’m serious.”

“Suppose I have a knack for languages.”

“Suppose? I remember there was that time, I needed you to translate something from Polish. It was perfect.”

“I’ve botched a few translations, too, I’m sure.”

“Maybe when you were trying to _read_ Arabic. But honestly, Martin, just-” John cuts off, flopping down on one of the single beds. “It was very impressive.”

“John?”

“Hm? Would you close the curtains?”

“Yeah, um, John,” Martin repeats, going to close them, “You realize we’re not in a safehouse anymore?”

“In a hotel room. Away from the Eye. Safe enough.”

“Mhmm, yeah,” Martin says, going around to sit on the other bed. “But we’re still in Pakistan.”

“And we’ve got one of those door things.”

“Door things?”

“Yeah. The signs you put on there to tell room service to fuck off instead of, you know, a sock or something.”

“John,” Martin says, exasperated, but he’s coming onto John’s bed, leaning over him. “They don’t like us here.”

“Think they don’t mind you, actually. Nothing legal, but they’re working on it. You’re divine,” John says, meaning it.

Martin rolls his eyes. They glint like crystal in the low light. “Right, yeah, of course. Divine.”

“Guess that makes me an idol worshipper.” John snakes his arms around Martin’s back, and he sighs, but relaxes, sinking closer to John. “Good thing we aren’t among Christians.”

“Muslims and Jews have the same book, you know.”

“Yeah, okay, but we’re going to a Buddhist holy site, so where does that leave us?”

Martin finally gives in, collapsing on top of John, burying his face in his neck. “Doesn’t leave us anywhere. I’m agnostic on a good day.”

John presses a kiss to the skin below Martin’s ear. “So am I.”

“Really? I’d have guessed atheism.”

“Nah. Not after the fears. And that’s beside the point anyway.” John is trailing kisses down his neck.

“You’re making me very horny, John.”

John stops. “Good or bad?”

Martin laughs and pushes up onto his elbows. “I should be asking you that.”

“Should you? I- oh. Oh. I was trying to, I don’t know, initiate. If you, um. Wanted. But if it’s not good, if you’d rather not-”

“No,” Martin says.

“No what?”

“No, it is good. And I am very confident in our ability to figure it out.” There’s a sharpness to his gaze now, challenging, but restrained, too, like he isn’t quite sure if-

“Martin, we have done this how many times-” John pauses to kiss him, “-and you still-” another kiss, “-think I wouldn’t be honest about it?”

“Well, I just thought- wait, are you saying _you’re_ turned on?” Martin’s eyes are wide.

“ _Two days_ , Martin, you _learned a language in two_ -”

Martin laughs, and John takes the opportunity to relocate his lips to Martin’s neck, to feel that laugh buzzing on his own skin. Then he says, “You’re sure?”

“God, John, yes, I’m- you’ve never been like this before, of course I’m- we should move, shouldn’t we?”

“Probably.” John doesn’t, though. Too busy kissing Martin.

“Okay, okay,” Martin says, and stands up, which causes a wounded noise from John, who doesn’t care, they were perfectly fine as is, except Martin is dragging John out of the gap between the beds and pushing them together and-

“Fine,” John says. “I relent.” He moves to help.

“No! Stay there!”

“I’m fine, Martin, I can push a bed a few f-”

“You just went upstairs, and you will under no circumstances be on top at any point, horniness be damned, so if you were thinking that don’t-”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not re-breaking your leg having sex with me!”

“But I am having sex with you?”

“As long as you promise not to fall into the crack between the beds and break your tailbone or something-”

“Okay,” John says. He then waits patiently to be undressed.

Pakistan is hot.

They have to walk a while to get to the monastery, which was built around the ruins of its predecessor. The humidity sticks to John’s skin and makes his joints ache. At least the view is interesting. A few shifted stones and remnants of smaller outbuildings dot the grass on either side of the road. It is steep; John takes his time. He didn’t think the crutches would be well-suited to the terrain. Martin keeps a steady grip on his arm, offering balance where it’s needed and support when John tires.

John’s shitty watch reads 9:37 when they finally reach the front door.

Martin is still holding his arm. “You alright?”

“Water?”

Martin passes it.

John drinks. “Okay. Do we knock?”

“I think it’s open. Religious sanctuary,” Martin says, and tries the handle.

The door opens into a small but impressive foyer. It serves as an antechamber for the chapel beyond, and halls and doors on either side promise entry to the rest of the building. It appeared long and low from the outside, but John feels like it goes much farther than it seemed, extending, deceptively unassuming, wide and deep.

John can’t see anyone, yet, but he knows it’s only a matter of- ah, yes. Footsteps.

A monk approaches. He does not look garish like some avatars, or blurry, like others, but is nondescript in every way. “Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Sims. Welcome to our monastery.” John can tell he’s an avatar. They have an edge to them, a sharpness; for humans it screams predator. When John counted himself among them it said equal, or maybe adversary.

“Thank you for having us,” Martin says.

“Should we call you brother?” John asks.

“I think that would be best. We are not… well, let us just say we do things a little differently than others, and that would make things simpler.”

John nods. “Fair enough. We, ah- we seek knowledge. A kind we thought you in particular might possess.”

“I see. I am happy to answer any questions you have, and, if possible, welcome you to use our archive to help you further.”

John hesitates. Questions sit poised on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t know which to ask. Doesn’t know which are safe to ask.

Martin does for him. “We’ve found ourselves in an unusual situation. If you’re amenable, we’d like to ask for your insight. Granted it’s… only yours.”

“Of course. Yes. For now, we three are alone.”

“Truly?” John asks, staring into the monk’s eyes.

“Yes, truly. If you would like, we can sit, and talk.”

After a glance at Martin, John nods, and the three of them go to sit in the back pews. It feels strange, being almost in a church, but safe, too, like- well, like here, at least, they are free of the Eye’s scrutiny, if not outside its range.

“What would you like to know?”

“Are you aware of our circumstances?” John asks.

“Yes. With regard to our mutual interest, I… yes. I am aware.”

“Do you know-” John cuts off, collects himself, tries again, “Do you have any idea how it happened? How I got away?

“I do and I don’t. I can only offer my conclusions based on what I See, you understand? My response will be informed, yes, but far from concrete.”

John nods.

“It was a fluke, I think. Logical in terms of your potential allegiance, but... unwise to attempt any other way. The chances of becoming so close to one like that and living are not high enough for me to recommend it. I would even go so far as to guess Magnus has experimented, throughout the years, to even have that much faith in you, Mr. Sims.”

John is taken aback by the shift from vague language to explicit names. This man doesn’t just know, he Sees- or has Seen- and it’s been so long since John’s encountered (or been) anything but a malicious instrument of Sight that he doesn’t know how to react.

Martin takes his hand. John makes eye contact, quick: go on, I’m fine, just startled.

“What about me?” Martin asks.

“The Lonely almost had you. And now it doesn’t.”

John lets out an impatient noise. “But the Eye was-”

“They cannot fight each other. Not really. It’s not in their nature.”

John wants to argue, to say that it is their nature, that they know nothing but the battle for dominance, for followers, for power, but- would that be right? The fears depend on each other. They can’t be untangled no matter how hard Smirke may have tried. They are too amorphous, too connected, too dependent.

Martin is not satisfied, presses, “So even if it can still See me, even if I’m still a minor avatar, did I break that connection with the Lonely?”

“It seems you did. Mostly, at least. You still tend more toward it than the Eye. I can’t See everything, of course, I’m no Magnus, nor am I _the_ Archivist, but I suppose I am _an_ Archivist. Which makes it easier, to see how they’ve touched you.”

“So I’m not an avatar?”

“No, not as you would describe it. Neither of you are. Although, in your case, Mr. Sims, things are somewhat muddled. You’ve gone too far not to have a sense of the fears, but belong to none. Whatever you did to throw off the Eye, it cannot claim you any longer, though it tries.”

John is flooded with uncertainty and shock and relief. If this is an Archivist, wouldn’t he have motive to lie? But that isn’t right, either. John has been there, has been that- there is no thought, no processing. Things just flow, answers pouring out of you before the questions are all the way out. This monk is answering with the same swiftness and ease that John did all those times the Eye showed him. Except- the Eye isn’t here, not in itself, if it was he would feel it.

Martin is looking at him. They are both waiting for him to ask the next question.

John clears his throat. “Is it trying to See me right now?”

The brother shakes his head, smiles, slight and sad. “It will always be trying. They all will. Although this is the strongest in your case. Most connected to your nature.”

“Right, I- right.” All this talk of natures, again. Why does John trust him? He doesn’t want to, he just does. It isn’t right, that isn’t how this works. Not when Martin was once all he had. Still is, in some ways. Not when anything too twisted or horrifying to exist _can_ , if it likes. Speaking of, “Does it- are you hungry the same way I was? For statements?”

“Was Gertrude?”

“I- I don’t know,” John says. “I never really spoke to her. Not about any of this.”

The brother shrugs. “I cannot say. My relationship with the Eye is different, as I’m sure was Gertrude’s. It Sees us all, this is true, but it does not See us all the same way.”

Seeing John is still fumbling, Martin steps in again. “Okay. So John’s still most connected to the Eye, and I’m still most connected to the Lonely?”

“I suppose. Though I think the word ‘connected’ implies they have more power than they do. You’re both doing quite well at throwing them off. You especially, Mr. Blackwood. I’ve never seen anyone do it so well.”

“I- erm- thank you? It’s not really me, it’s more-”

“It is you,” John interrupts.

Martin gives him a look.

“Ahh,” the brother says. “Fear and love are oppositional forces. Not opposites, exactly, but… conflicting.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, just- you didn’t notice? When we came in? Didn’t See it, or just, I dunno- I’m sorry, it’s just we rely too much on each other to get out of these things, so I thought maybe…” Martin trails off.

“I see what you mean, yes. That is not how my Sight works, though. I serve the Eye, yes, I feed it, but we go where we are needed.”

“Does it have the same affect, though?” John asks. “Everyone I fed on had dreams, nightmares, because of it. Possibly still do, and I was in them all. Maybe still am.” John himself doesn’t have the dreams anymore, only relives his old ones. But there’s no way to tell.

“We have different methods. Not asking. Not pulling. The lack of compulsion, I think, has something to do with it.”

Is John being compelled right now? No, he’d know, he’s _done it_. “But you still take statements.”

“Yes. Not the way you do. The difference is hard to explain. There are many of us with the same purpose, and we do seek fear; in exchange for our bounty, we are allowed a concession. It’s impossible to say whether it depends more on our willpower or the Eye’s hunger. But the result is the same. They may dream, may dream of us, even, but they are not bound to it. They are not linked to the Eye like those you spoke with.”

John bristles at the ease with which this man, this avatar, describes it. He inhales. “So you don’t ask, but since they tell you anyway, you’re a medium. A conduit.”

“I believe that is the most accurate word, yes.”

“Can it See us now?” John had not thought to ask outright before. Stupid. Never mind all this could be lies, a trap.

But it isn’t, it isn’t, John Knows it isn’t.

He feels that familiar stab. Shoves it out, away. Far as he can. I’m mine. And Martin’s. And the world’s. Not yours. Never yours. Never again.

“The Eye takes very little interest in us beyond the steady nourishment we provide. It could Look, if it wanted, but we would likely know about it.”

“So we’re safe here?” Martin asks.

“Yes and no. We would warn you, of course, but that does not mean we would be able to stop it.”

“Right,” Martin turns to John.

“We’re trying to stop... a severe imbalance,” John says carefully. “We came for information that might help us.”

The monk stares at him for a few moments. John stares back. Finally the brother says, “We would not deny those who wish to seek knowledge. And we certainly would not deny one linked to Beholding, however faintly. Would knowledge be all you require?”

“We don’t know yet,” John admits. “Were there to be more... might you be willing to help?”

“Myself and my brothers would do much to maintain balance among fears. It would do no good to allow an enemy to become too powerful.”

“Of course not,” John says. Then, “Is it safe? Your archive?”

“Beholding will not see unless it Looks. In that sense, you are as safe here as anywhere else.”

John nods. “Notes. We’ll need to take notes. And... be thorough,” he adds, with a significant glance at Martin.

“Wouldn’t want to miss something.” Martin doesn’t look excited at the prospect of doing extra work just to misdirect the Eye, but it’s their only option. “We won’t be disturbing anyone, will we?”

“Our archive is large, and we have other places to study, should you wish. But I didn’t think you wanted to stay here, nor are there nearly enough of us to use all the seats inside. I cannot, of course, let you remove anything from the building.”

“Of course. We don’t have any concrete plans. We can leave at the end of the day and return in the morning, if you’ll have us.”

“As long as is required, Mr. Blackwood.”

John nods. “Good. Good. I- thank you,” he puts every ounce of gratitude he can into the words.

The monk shakes his head slightly. “Think nothing of it. Would you like to begin?”

Martin looks to John again. John says, “Yes.”

“Right this way.”

John picks up a statement.

The paper is cool and brittle in his hands. Old, very old, by the looks of it, but made to last. It has lasted, words standing out clear and dark on the page.

There is no compulsion.

It’s more of a pull. A sense that if he leaned forward just a bit too much he could lose his balance. Tumble back into it again.

John takes a breath. It smells of old paper. He looks down, focuses. Reads.

John keeps his mouth shut. Keeps the door shut. Is placing a hand on it, feeling vibrations, but not letting anything through.

“Are you alright?” Martin waits to ask until John looks up.

John nods. “Yes, Martin, I… I’m fine. It isn’t- I mean I can sense it lurking just on the other side of my- I don’t know- will, I suppose? But I’m not going to let it in again.”

“Good,” Martin said. “That’s- I’m proud of you. You know that?”

“Martin.”

“I mean it. You did something no one thought was possible because you refused to accept it wasn’t.”

“Stupid. Stubborn.”

“Strong. Brave.”

John looks down at the table, doubtlessly unsuccessful in hiding his blush. “We’re going to need- we, ah, need a better phone. To have any hope of translating any of this.”

While some of the statements are in English, more are in Urdu, or Hindi, or other scripts John can barely tell apart, let alone read. If it weren’t for the monks’ homage to the West’s pathological need to classify things he wouldn’t have even been able to identify the right section of the archive, let alone find anything useful in it.

“Time for that tomorrow.” Martin places a hand on his cheek. “So proud of you.”

“I hardly did anything, I-”

“Yellow,” Martin says, smiling.

“Okay. But I didn’t avert the apocalypse _alone_.”

Martin makes a conciliatory expression.

John reads another statement.

In the end they are able to gather enough. Enough to form a plan.

They do this mostly in silence, swapping pages of notes or pointing out specific statements. They have to do an unreasonable amount of extra work, of course, because if they don’t the chances of the Eye checking in on the monastery and just Knowing which statements had been disturbed while they were there will be too great.

At first John wants to burn the notes. Eradicate all possible proof of what they know in case their plan backfires. But he knows that would be almost as foolish as copying them. What if they need something, later? A reference point to some detail that could make them succeed or fail? And the Eye can’t see through their eyes anymore, at least not without expending more effort than it has thus far to fight its way through. So it is alright, keeping them. It is preferable. So long as they don’t take the important ones out near any cameras. So long as they steer clear of anyone with symbolic jewelry or “ironic” tattoos.

Before he knows it they’re packing to leave, weeks after they thought they’d be, but both feeling very good about their chances.

“I’m so glad we don’t have to go to Lebanon,” Martin says as he zips his suitcase. “Really. This has been enough research to last me years, at least.”

“Does that mean you’ll take some time off?”

“Oh, after this? Definitely. Working honeymoon, are you kidding? We’re taking at least a year. Have a nice long holiday somewhere nice, on the Mediterranean, maybe, Italy, or Greece, and then... I don’t know. We could go anywhere.”

“Could we?” John comes up behind Martin, wraps his arms around him.

“We could go anywhere you like. I think the sun might be nice, as much of it as we got here.”

John laughs. “I know what you mean. Even if it is harder to hide in the sun.”

“Nothing left to hide from.”

“Won’t be, no.” John sighs and closes his eyes, rests his head on Martin’s back. “I would very much like to stop being paranoid. Least for a few hours.”

Martin’s laugh reverberates through John’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However I divide what's after this, the rest will be posted in one go, probably next week. Hope you're enjoying it! Thank you all so much for reading.


	7. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for discussion of suicide, major injuries, minor blood, and more Eye fighting inc. all the nasty stuff it says to John
> 
> Thank everyone for reading it's been a blast. Hope you enjoy these last few.

By the time they are set up in John’s flat- because his lease is somehow not up yet and what good will hiding do, now? They’re doing what they can to keep the plan secret, he may as well know they’re getting close- by the time they’re set up in John’s flat, the month has turned again.

They decide to stick to the same cautious patterns they had before, not going out if they can help it, staying away from cameras, and never discussing anything within range of a microphone or camera. The phone is kept buried under layers and layers of cotton when not in use. For as little time as he spent in his flat leading up to their flight, John had been paranoid enough to remove all other eyes from the place. They were as safe there as they were anywhere else. Safer, even, if Magnus didn’t know where they were, because who in their right mind would hide from their omniscient former boss in their own flat?

A call after their first uneasy night of sleep confirms Basira is in the city, though she can’t meet them until the next day.

She, too, is at her old flat. John almost laughs when she tells him.

They must pass a thousand cameras on the way. A subtle reminder that they are long past Magnus not noticing them. John knocks. Basira opens the door. “Hey, Basira.”

“Hi, John. Martin. How are you?” She looks good. Well. Irritated, always, but John’s come to think of that as her way.

“We’re good. How are you, Basira?”

“I’m alright, Martin. I’m alright. Would you like to come in?”

“Love to,” Martin says, and steps into the apartment.

John notes the neatness, the subtle signs of habitation, and the lack of anything distinctly Daisy-feeling. They hadn’t discussed anything on the phone, though by the time they were back in London John was convinced Basira had found her. No way she’d sound so matter-of-fact otherwise.

But John doesn’t really expect it, when Basira’s next words are, “She’s in here,” when she leads them to a closed door, which opens to a bedroom, where they find Daisy.

Daisy looks halfway herself. She is sat cross-legged on the bed. A chain dangles from one leg. The other end is bolted to the wall.

“Hello, Daisy.”

“John! It’s good to see you. And Martin, how lovely.”

Martin approaches the bed, slow, cautious. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Basira just- turns out it fluctuates.” Daisy grimaces.

Martin nods and looks like he understands, though John can’t be sure if she’s talking about the entities or one’s allegiance to them or the weather.

“Ask Basira about the landlord,” Daisy suggests.

“What about the landlord?” Martin asks.

“How she got them to agree to bolting that thing to the wall,” John supplements.

Daisy grins. It is part-alright, part-sickly. “Careful. Talk like that makes one think you’re still attached. Though I suppose you wouldn’t be, if Basira let you in.”

“I tried to imply it’s a sex thing,” Basira said, ignoring Daisy’s mention of the Eye. “Also that I’d fix any damage it did, so. Didn’t seem too bothered. Think he’s still gonna charge me anyway. Not that he believes me. Been living here since I was a cop, after all.”

“Would you believe you?” Martin asks.

“Yeah, totally. Shit I get up to at weekends, you’ve got no idea.”

Daisy is still smiling that strange way, and swaying slightly from side to side. With no warning she goes rigid, locks her gaze on Martin. “Oh, Martin. It’s been so long. D’you think I could have-” but then she’s hissing, because Basira is pulling Martin back out of the room, and shutting the door.

“I’m so sorry,” John says, because he can’t think of anything else. He’d been around enough fear to feel it in the room- she was Daisy, but she was still overcome. Still not in control, not independent of the Hunt.

Basira snorts. “Better than the way I found her.”

“How?” Martin asks.

“Well, she was in the Hunt, and I was in the Hunt, except I had the Eye to counterbalance that. So I didn’t lose control. And the only way I knew would work was the Buried. So I found an artefact, like your rib, and I used it to get her out. Some days she’s normal, and some days she’s like this.”

“I TOLD YOU TO KILL ME,” Daisy shouts, from the next room, making Martin and John jump.

Basira does not flinch. “She isn’t very happy about it.”

John decides not to mention that he is becoming less convinced with each passing day that the rib did much of anything, and instead latches hopefully onto the moment of confirmation that there is still some Daisy left in her.

Or as much as can be expected, in the circumstances.

“But I mean, that’s- that is still her, isn’t it?” Martin’s voice goes up too much at the end, uncertainty twisting into it.

“Yes and no,” Basira says. “She’s still there, underneath it, the Buried pulled her out of the Hunt enough for her to come through, I think, but now she’s lost again, and I-” her voice breaks. “What did you find out?”

“You’re right about counterbalances. At least when it comes to the fears, on a person. It helped get Martin out, we think, and knowing I had all that contact made me more confident against the Eye. But the only way for Daisy to come out completely is if she fights it,” John says.

“I’ve tried that,” Basira says.

“ _She’s_ got to try,” John says. “I- Martin may have done the worst of it, finally convinced the Eye to leave, but I had to fight it out of my head. Push it away, bit by bit, until all it needed was that final shove and I was me again.”

Basira looks skeptical. “ _You_ again?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think she...” Basira trails off. Takes a breath. “I’m afraid she’s forgotten.”

John’s mind tilts. “The Buried did that to her and she came back.”

“Yes.”

“Can she do it again?” Martin asks, voicing the question John was afraid to speak aloud.

“I don’t know.”

“I think she can,” John says, and goes to the door, where Daisy is yelling, not especially loud, but very clearly angry, and opens it. “Hey, Daisy.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I think you can come back.”

“Kill me or go away, John.”

“I know you can come back. You did it once.”

“No I didn’t. I was still trapped.”

“You weren’t, though. You went back to the Hunt, but you got out of the Buried.”

“That was you.”

“It doesn’t work that way. You had to get yourself out. I couldn’t do that for you.”

Daisy cries out, frustrated, and then says, “Why won’t you kill me?”

“Because you’re still here. You can still be here.”

“Get out.”

“You don’t want me to sit with you?”

“I’m not Daisy anymore.”

“You are.”

Her voice is anguished. “ _John_.”

“See? I’m John. Not the Archivist. Can’t you tell?”

Daisy’s lips pull back as if to retort, but then she catches it, some sense or scent or something, and freezes.

“John. Not the Archivist. And you can be Daisy. Not the Buried. Not the Hunter.”

She doesn’t look like she believes, but she does look like she’s considering it.

“I don’t have to go, but I will because you want me to, Daisy,” John says, and steps out again, shuts the door softly. He turns to Basira and takes a breath. “I think- Basira, I _know_ she’s still in there. Not from it, not from the Eye. From the fears. I can- we can all sense them now. And she isn’t only the Hunt, do you see? None of us is really just one.”

Basira sighs. “She can hear you, you know? Every word. She’s still got those senses, from the Hunt, even if it isn’t- even if it isn’t all the way her.”

“Does she think everything I’m saying is for her benefit?”

“Probably. Never was very trusting.”

John sighs. “Then I hope she sees we don’t have a reason to lie about this.”

“How did you do it, John?” Basira sounds tired. “Really?”

“The only way out is through. Always has been.” When she betrays nothing, John asks, “Would you like to try? For yourself?”

Basira lets out a harsh laugh. “Myself? Like, what, the Eye? You don’t think I’ve tried?”

“No, I- it's different for everyone, I’m sure. But I think maybe you don’t know how to try.”

Basira shakes her head, voice exhausted. “As if you fucking- as if any of us understands- What does that mean, John? What does that _mean_ , really? Do you think I don’t have a strong enough sense of self to use that against it? Or is it that other entities part? Am I weak for not wanting to let them- not wanting to give one of the others a chance to gain more ground than it already has?”

“You’re yours, Basira. Yourself. I know it feels impossible.”

“Feels impossible? Yeah, right. You’re an avatar of the apocalypse, what have the rest of us got?”

John raises a hand. “Martin did it.”

“You helped him.”

“And he helped me, did he tell you that, ever? That I would have died without him, or worse?”

Basira’s grim resolve seems to falter. But she presses, “Daisy’s worse right now.”

“We’ll try. We’ll all try.”

“How many days have we got, John? Three? Maybe four? You were gone seven months.”

John lets that sit for a moment. Because there’s nothing he can say to it. Then, “You... could keep her here. Until we’ve dealt with him. Until we’ve fixed some of this.”

“What if all of us die?”

“We won’t,” Martin says.

Basira looks incredulous. “ _Martin._ ”

“Right, yeah, you have a point, but- just- we aren’t all going in, are we? All three of us?”

John and Basira immediately start refuting him, speaking over each other.

“Alright, alright!” Martin holds up his hands. “Stupid of me to suggest it, fine. But that doesn’t mean- there has to be someone. Someone to take over for destroying Elias if we fail. And if we don’t all go in, there will be.”

Basira rounds on John, frustration ratcheting up to fury. “Taking a wild guess you didn’t plan for any of this?”

John exhales, frustrated. “Who was I supposed to call, pray tell? Who would be our backup? Did you want me to ring Jude Perry? Maybe see if Simon Fairchild had any other engagements?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what you should have done! _The fuck_ are we supposed to do now, John? How are we going to be sure someone will know Elias is trying, let alone know Daisy’s here? I’m not going to _leave her_ to fucking starve-”

“Nobody’s asking you to,” Martin says, quietly, and somehow that gets Basira to look marginally calmer. “I can get in touch with Simon. He was a good suggestion, actually, John.”

John turns to him. “What?”

“Basira, do you have a phone?” They had left theirs at the flat, deafened and dead, as if that might matter.

Basira pulls a burner out of her pocket and tosses it to him.

Martin paces into the kitchen and dials a number. His voice is too low to hear. John and Basira just stare at the doorway, waiting. When Martin finally returns, he throws Basira her phone back and says, “He’ll kill her if we’re dead.”

A broken cry comes from the bedroom.

“That good enough?” Martin locks eyes with Basira.

She holds his only a second before she looks away. “It’ll have to be.”

A beat passes. John says, “Where’s this blind spot you’ve mentioned?”

“Come on, then.” Basira heads for the door.

John and Martin follow.

There are false fronts on a handful of buildings in most major cities, as a means to make public transport maintenance access points blend in. London is not as concerned about aesthetics as Paris, but they still have their fair share of false fronts. Basira takes them to one, accessible only after a trip to the top of a rundown stack of flats and across the roof, then down onto a set of metal stairs suspended over a massive underground vent. The sound is constant, rumbling, deafening when a train goes by, as a few do during their descent.

John can feel that they are entering Buried territory. He remembers the suffocating press, Karolina Górka’s statement, Daisy, and reaching, clinging to the faintest suggestion of-

John grabs Martin’s hand. Not too tight, not alarming, just. Martin.

When they finally reach the bottom, they enter a sort of service tunnel. The trains scream by even louder, here, but they can see up and out the access hatch, see some bit of sky.

At least until they start moving.

“How far?” John asks.

“I don’t know. This is the way I came out.”

John doesn’t ask for an explanation. Martin squeezes his hand.

After what feels like a mile of echoing vibrations and damp air and darkness but for Basira’s torch and the dim corridor lamps near the ground, she finally stops. “It’s here, I think. I marked- yes, here.” She touches a spot on the wall, illuminates it to reveal a harsh black ‘x’ on the concrete.

“How did you make that?” John asks.

Basira snorts and doesn’t reply. Then she says, “Now we’ve got a contingency for when we’re all dead, what’s the plan?”

They’re safe to talk here, John knows. That ever-present prick of the Eye trying to find him has gone, replaced by blistering relief. Relief he hadn’t known since the safe house.

John squeezes Martin’s hand and says, “We’ve lined up a chain reaction that should distract the Eye enough for us to get to Elias.”

“Goody. More distractions. What is it this time, more bombs?”

They are silent.

“Oh, my god,” Basira says with a hollow laugh. “It’s more bombs. You’re doing it again. You’re going to- what- how exactly are more bombs going to help us, when the casualty rate was _fifty percent_ last time?”

“We aren’t going to be near any of them. We’re going to be on Elias,” Martin says.

“So it’s other peoples’ deaths on our heads, fantastic.”

“No, actually, it’s- we don’t plan on hurting anyone, or even damaging anything important,” John says. “At least not important to us.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that no people are going to be in the blast ranges, and that any information we might need to keep doing our job will be safe,” John’s voice falters at the end.

Basira looks, if possible, even more disbelieving. “Blast ranges plural?”

“International chain reaction. We hope,” John clarifies.

Basira laughs. “Right. And the ‘keep doing your job’ part?”

John notices she left herself out.

Martin answers, “Fighting the entities. Pitting them against each other. Disrupting in any way we can. Did you listen before you sent the tapes?”

“I listened to some, yeah. Not the one Elias sent, obviously.”

“We think Gertrude’s right,” Martin says, “about the rituals not being functional, at least as they are.”

“Okay. So we’re blowing up a bunch of archives because- because nobody else knows that the rituals can’t succeed on their own?”

“Exactly. Or, er, hopefully. We don’t actually have any proof,” John admits. “We’re basing it on what Gertrude left behind. If they need to unite to succeed, and if the Eye was the only one who’s stood a chance of figuring that out, at least that we know of, this will set them back more than a few decades. If the few people who seemed willing to help- beyond just blowing up unimportant wings, I mean- if they are strategic about what they destroy, well, then…”

“Then the Eye’s set back a few centuries, and the others right along with it,” Martin finishes. “At least until another one figures it out, which, without those records, could take another thousand years.”

John puts every bit of optimism he can into his next words. “There’s no guarantee, but at the very least we can stop him.”

“Fuck,” Basira says softly. Then, “As for a second attempt on any fear’s part, well, cross that bridge, right? Elias is the priority now.”

John is amazed at how readily she seems to accept the uncertainty. All the glaring weaknesses in a plan he can’t even say for sure is solid, because every person who knows about it makes it that much less viable. “That’s what we, er- that's what we thought.”

“So you needed to tell me this here because you don’t want the Eye to know you’re going to be just as stupid a second time,” the joke is not cutting, although Basira still sounds like she might burst out laughing at any second.

“Basically,” Martin says. “We also have no clue what the scope is going to be, because we were only able to establish contact ourselves with two. The rest we’re relying on a communication chain. With, like, code words, and multiple confirmation routes, and a whole lot of us trusting some Archivists who seemed cool but could be trying to sabotage all of this. One good thing is we don’t think many other avatars are in on Magnus’s plan, because depending on how powerful they are, they’d begrudge him the starring role. Or. Begrudge John, maybe. Either way, we tried to keep cautious. Stress the importance of a connection to humanity in all the avatars we did involve. Between the statements and our experience we know it doesn’t have to be all-consuming, right? We’re living proof. And the monks said they only got involved where they were needed, that they didn’t have the same effect on people as John when they take statements- that it isn’t taking, that they don’t ask, and because it’s feeding the Eye anyway it leaves them alone.”

“Have you ever known an entity to leave anyone alone? Especially the Eye?”

“It’s not going to stop, ever. We know that,” Martin says. “But as long as there’s some humanity involved, some motivation not to end the world so long as everyone’s properly fed…” he shrugs.

“So you’re staying on?”

“At least long enough to pass the torch to someone who volunteers.”

“Who would volunteer for this, Martin?”

“Dunno. Reckon a lot of people would. Look at me, I’m not too bothered and I didn’t even get into it on purpose.”

Basira laughs. “Okay. Yeah. Well, if that’s all, just going to bank on that delusional hope-”

“It’s not delusional,” Martin says. “For how many people dedicate themselves to the fears, learn how they feed on people, and decide to become active parts of it? You don’t think, for all those people, there’s a handful who’d be content to go on feeding, because the status quo is better for everyone than the Eyepocalypse? And the same goes for us. There’s got to be more than three people willing to work against any of this. People who recognize how bad it is and can’t just stand by and let it happen.”

“When you put it like that,” Basira says, “you sound even better than the lunatics who recruited for the police.”

“Well, I’ll have to. I’m going to be in charge.”

Basira looks between them, contemplating, but evidently decides against whatever questions she has, as she remains quiet.

“Okay,” John says, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt up the back of his spine. “Anything else?”

“You’ve just asked me to trust you again, and I don’t have a choice. But it would be really nice if you could explain how you got away from Beholding better, because I know you’ve tried to explain before, but honestly, John, I didn’t find any of your past explanations especially helpful.”

John sits.

Basira follows suit.

“You know how it makes you hungry? All the time? Not bad, always, just… always there?”

Basira nods.

“That’s not you. It’s the Eye. There is a part of you that’s tied to it, and you’ll be tied to it forever. Fear marks us. Can’t avoid it. But you can be connected to it without actively feeding it. Still be Basira, still be marked by fear, but without that obligation. Without that hunger. It’s kind of like relegating it to the relationship I have with the other fears. The relationship most humans, I can only imagine, have with them. Making it clear something else- your humanity- has too strong a hold on you for you to fully give into one. Except that thing keeping them back isn’t another fear, it’s you.”

“Okay.”

“It’s almost like there are two yous? There’s the part of you that’s your core, your self, and then there’s the less human part. The part the Eye uses to feed. For me it was about stopping being the Archivist. That was my inhuman part. So in the end, it was about figuring out how to use the human part to force the Eye out. To kill the part of me that depended on it, to realize I could exist without it. Taking control of myself again. Taking myself back.”

“But how?”

“You have to resist. Resist and resist until the Eye can’t take it any longer and you force it out for good.”

“That’s it? I’ve got to resist?” Basira doesn’t sound especially convinced.

“You’ll remember I nearly died getting it out?”

Basira grits her teeth. “I’m hoping I’m not as close.”

“You’re not, not by a long shot. But the resistance… you’ve got to do it always. At every thought. When the Eye thinks something through you, expresses hunger, or reminds you that it holds all knowledge, that it could Show you anything if you just let it. You have to say you don’t want it. Say you don’t want it and mean it. You have to say that’s not me. You’re not me. Over and over and fucking over again. Because even after you get it out you can still feel fear and the desire to master it. It nearly killed me because the Eye kept me alive. Not to mention all the bones it broke on its way out. But I don’t think it’ll be that bad for you. You’ve never been dead.”

“Not since I was connected to Beholding, no.”

John nods. “Good. So it’s got nothing over you apart from your own fear. It made me relive statements, memories, horrible things. But I refused to See. I refused to let it bring external things in, to show me anything I didn’t already Know. And how could anything I’ve already seen, already experienced or felt or- or- absorbed, how could any of that do more damage than it already has?”

Basira narrows her eyes, hums a bit. She isn’t deflecting John’s every word with skepticism, which is good, at least. He lets her mull for a while. Finally she says, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, then?”

“Something like that. D’you- was that helpful?”

“Yes. I think so. I don’t know, because I haven’t thought of it this way before, but this makes more sense to me than the door analogy. Or the glass, or whatever.”

“I was stupid. Shouldn’t have made it about knowledge. Should’ve made it about fear. You were a sectioned officer, for fuck’s sake.” John takes the hand Martin offers, tries not to wince on his way up. “Fear is something you of all people can understand.”

Basira rises in one smooth motion. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one. Academics are the worst.” John takes the lighter out of his pocket, where it has somehow remained, though many tattered garments and thousands of miles.

He is far beyond knowing if this was the Web’s plan all along. In the end, he decides, it doesn’t matter, because he’d choose this, anyway. And if the Web likes the world as it is, that’s fine with John. He clicks it, but it doesn’t light.

Martin is staring at him. “John?”

“What is that?” Basira asks, eyes wide.

“It’s nothing.” John clicks the lighter again. “Or maybe an ally. But look.” Click. “No light.”

Basira raises her eyebrows. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“He thinks that since it lights outside this place, this is a blind spot for the Web, too,” explains Martin.

“Stupid,” John concedes.

“Not necessarily. None of this follows normal logic, remember?” Basira peers at the lighter. “And I couldn’t take her here. Daisy. She fought me.”

John sucks in a breath. Martin squeezes his hand.

Basira takes in their expressions and sighs. “You know how hard it is to move her?”

“So we do it at night. Easier,” John says. “Middle of the night. What, three, four? Only drunk people out around then, right? And bakers?”

Despite her insistence that she is too far gone, Daisy knows they aren’t taking her somewhere to kill her, and because of that, she fights.

Basira ties the strip of fabric around her mouth, and, because the Hunt is the last thing they want knowing exactly where their blind spot is, adds a hood. She then raises Daisy’s sleeve and stabs a sedative into her arm.

It does not look like the first time she’s done any of this.

They then get to the grim task of moving an unconscious avatar without being arrested.

Since the sedative worked, they can take the hood off. Daisy doesn’t look like she’s waking up anytime soon, though Basira’s got another dose on hand in case she does. Basira also has a wheelchair, and after Martin fireman-carries Daisy down the stairs, he sets her in it. They don’t look inconspicuous, but if they walk fast they should be able to make good time to the access point.

Once they reach it, things get trickier.

Neither of them will let John help, so he goes ahead to open the doors. Everything’s fine until they get to the ladder.

“Didn’t think this far ahead,” Martin pants.

“I did.” Basira pulls a sheet from nowhere. “I think we have to pass her down. Might need John for this one. Think you can get her to the ground without hurting her too badly? Note I say too badly. As long as she’s still out it doesn’t matter, the Hunt will heal her fast.”

John stares at her. Breaking a few of Daisy’s bones was never part of the plan.

With determination and many sounds of distress from Martin, they don’t break any of her bones.

Then they’re back down again, and Basira’s got her head and Martin her feet, and they’re panting but look relieved, and John’s arm and leg ache something terrible, not to mention every joint being on fire, but he ignores it, because they’re going to save Daisy. Daisy’s going to save Daisy.

When she comes to she shakes and sobs and screams, and Basira is gentler than John has ever seen her, and Martin alternates between mumbled reassurances and wringing his hands, and John sits against the cold wall, hurting all over but so, so determined, piping in every chance he gets to tell Daisy she can do this.

She does.

Only, the Hunt favors internal bleeding to broken bones, on its way out.

They take Daisy to the hospital.

“Check in tomorrow?” John asks.

“You can stay with her and I’ll go to the blind spot,” Basira says. “I’ll... I’ll start trying, but if Elias comes, you don’t come back, understand me?” She takes John’s hand. “Promise.”

“If Elias comes for either of us we’ll split. I promise,” John manages to say, against every fiber of his being.

“Good,” Basira says, releasing his hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John takes it as a victory that she does not add a contingency to the sentence.

The next day is unseasonably cold, and John wakes with every joint on fire and shaking.

Martin is already wrapped around him, outside three blankets. “It’s alright, love, I’m here.”

He gets it, John realizes. He understood I am panicking before I did.

“We need to get some food in you, but I won’t leave you until you’re ready, alright?”

John manages a nod.

Later, when water and toast and pain pills and Martin Martin Martin breathing with him have taken the edge off, John sees that it’s still early. Eight. He turns from the clock to Martin, concerned.

“I slept enough, John. Really. And my whole body doesn’t hurt.”

John wonders what about his body language made Martin so certain of it and sucks in a breath.

“Hey, no, come on, don’t leave. You’re doing so well. Stay with me, John, stay-”

The waves are pounding at the door. He can barely get out a breath, “ _Martin_.”

“John?” He is worried, John knows, can feel it in Martin’s voice, but John is fighting so hard, so so hard, and- “I’m right here, John, come on, come back to me.”

How does he always know?

The wood of the door is so weak. John hadn’t realized it. But after the barrage, day after month after year, it has begun to rot. It is chipping away, splintering under the onslaught. And John is so tired, he’s been doing this for so long, he-

“-right here, John, I’m right here.”

John screams, rage and agony and frustration, because it has taken so much from him, you have taken so much from me and now you want more? Again? When will you see that I’ve had enough, that I will never let you in, and if you keep trying and I weaken I will find a way to push you out again, you will never have power here, never again-

“-know you can do it, I know you can, you already have, come on.” Martin is crying. John can tell not by sight or Sight, but by the tone of his voice.

John is pushing the Eye away with everything he is. Pain wracks through him, his mind is being ripped apart, there is nothing but his gasping dripping lungs as he drowns, he is not safe here, he was never safe here, how could he think that he would ever be safe there is no safety, there is no reprieve, you will die as you lived Jonathan Sims, denying this unavoidable truth, you have always been weak, don’t you see? You surrendered your chance at any kind of power the day you rejected me, don’t you See that? Look, Jonathan Sims, Look. There is no veil protecting you now. Let me in. You don’t have to be so ignorant, you don’t have to be so afraid, I will show you everything, you will exist beyond fear-

“If I don’t have fear you don’t exist. If I don’t have fear you die.” He doesn’t know if he’s speaking. It doesn’t matter. The Eye is in his head, watching him, everywhere. It will hear.

Not so, not if you _become_ me-

“That’s not what you’re promising. You lie.”

I would never lie to you, Archivist, never, you’re a part of me, you See all-

“No. I am not made for this. I will not die for you.”

Always so reductive, you humans, it isn’t dying, you know that, it’s only change, change for the better, we can See all, Know all, you would never be in danger again, you would be as one of us, we would be feared, we would glut ourselves on the fear of all life, avatars, even, you need never fear them again-

John keeps talking, holding back the impossible weight of it, clawing through the agony, “But you fear. You must, to exist. All must. It is necessary.”

I _am_ fear-

“Yes, but you fear as well. If you didn’t this wouldn’t be so important.”

Reductive foolish insolent-

“Get out.”

A childish attempt to boil universes down into simple phrases, into a handful of poorly-formed glyphs, so fleeting, so temporary, so helpless-

“You will never See me again.” John is only static and white-hot pain. Nothing but pain, crushing pressure, and still he fights it. I will not submit. Never again.

John comes back to himself by degrees.

The whiteness fades, first, that simultaneous nothing-and-everything receding millimeter by bloody millimeter. The pain begins to go with it, still there, still making him feel like his whole body is engulfed in flames, but somehow less. He can breathe. Shallow gasping things, but he can breathe again.

Things sharpen, become sensible once more. He can feel the sheets against his face where he’s collapsed on them. He can feel the icy sweat sticking his clothes to his skin. He can feel the screaming pain of each joint. The bone-deep ache of every old wound, every place a fear has touched him. His whole body throbs. Every nerve ending alight.

But he’s alive.

When John regains control of his voice, rasping through a throat raw from screaming, he realizes he is already speaking, repeating the same thing, over and over again, “Have to go now, Martin, we have to go now, we have to go-” he coughs blood.

“John, John, we have to-”

“Listen to me.” He grips Martin’s shoulders. Without the support he’d be too weak to hold himself up. “We have to go for Elias now. Right now.”

“You-”

“Call Basira, Martin, I don’t care what you tell her, we need to go _now_.”

Martin is quiet for a second. Staring.

“Can you help me walk?”

“John-”

“If we don’t get to him before he can flee we’ll have lost our chance.” Pain is the only thing keeping him awake, John knows. It feels like each of his cells has been wrenched inside out and twisted back again. Like an exquisitely thorough type of radiation. Or being set on fire, maybe, from the inside.

Martin picks up the phone and calls Basira. “We have to go now. John’s fought the Eye again and I think he’s lost his viability for the Crown, which means Magnus is going to flee.” A second later he hangs up. “Alright?”

“Not in the least, but I’m alright enough to do this. I’m still alive.”

Martin looks very much like he wants to argue. Instead he says, “Come on.” He turns, gestures for John to climb on his back. “I can get you down the stairs, but I don’t think I can carry you on the tube.”

“I’ll be fine, we just need to get there.”

John keeps having to stop, on the way. He can’t really stand on his own.

Martin makes another call as they go. It’s the monastery. They are probably not ready. No one is ready. The plan’s been shot to hell, and if they don’t get to Magnus now it’s going to be ten times harder to stop his next attempt. More than likely he knows where to find resources outside London. He’ll have at least half of the things they’d meant to destroy, if not more.

A block away Martin drops all pretense and picks him up. “Save your strength to get down,” he says, and he’s right, so John doesn’t protest.

John stumbles at the foot of the tunnel steps. He uses the wall to pull himself up as Martin comes down. John presses forward, through air strung taut with power and rage. He can feel where Magnus is. The Panopticon, again? He won’t know until they get there.


	8. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw gun and more John pain

It is not the Panopticon. They find Magnus in a part of the tunnels they’ve never seen. A vault, a horde. Thousands upon thousands of statements lining the walls.

Being among them makes John want to rip the skin from his bones. Anything to stop this feeling. Watched, watched, watched. Anything to escape.

And then he sees him, finally, and John freezes. Observes. Magnus is frantic, though it takes one who knows him to see it. The slowness of his movements, picking up a statement, looking it over, returning it to its shelf or tucking it away in the massive duffle hanging from his shoulder, the slight smirk on his face, the way he pointedly ignores the two come, as he well knows, to kill him. This attempt at nonchalance belies his true feelings. For the first time since John’s met him, Magnus is afraid. “So glad you could make it, boys. I thought we’d miss the chance to see each other again.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” John rasps.

Magnus pauses, glances over, contemplative. “You don’t look good, John. Are you sure you ought to be here? Maybe better nip upstairs, have a lie down?”

“I’m fine where I am, thanks. Like I said, wouldn’t miss it.” John knows he has blood on his face, down his front, knows his clothes are drenched with sweat and his face drawn with the effort of his fight less than an hour ago, knows he’s trembling and would collapse if not for Martin’s hand gripping his arm, but none of that matters. He knows he is different from Magnus, now, and that’s all he needs.

Magnus sighs, sets down the statement he’d been examining, and turns fully to face them. “You really think you could beat me in any kind of standoff, in that state?”

“I don’t have to.”

“Were you planning on capturing me, perhaps? Throwing me in jail again? I doubt Ms. Hussain’s old colleagues would take kindly to that.”

“No. We won’t be letting you go.”

“I see. Well...” Magnus looks them both over. “Neither of you seems to have any weapons.”

“And you don’t?”

“I’m all the way over here.”

John laughs. Strangled, but distinct. Arrogant, even. “Come, now, Jonah. Would you really give up your chance to See how I did it?” John knows it’s stupid. He knows he might black out the second Magnus takes a step closer. But he also knows Magnus won’t be able to resist. Knows that with the proximity, with the vulnerability that endless hunger lays bare, Martin will be able to get his gun. Because Magnus wouldn’t flee without a weapon. And he is, clearly, on the brink of fleeing.

John knows Magnus can’t See what he’s thinking, because for now he has made it clear that the Eye can’t take him alive, and, well. That’s not the ideal course of action, not after all the work that’s gone into torturing him. Best for it to leave John alone lest the Eye prove too much for him. Leave John a viable vessel for future attempts.

The tunnels shake. As if disturbed by a distant explosion. Magnus’s eyebrows raise a fraction. “Trying to trap me?”

“Come and find out. You know that’s the easiest way.” John knows because he did it. It’s the truth. No purer connection to someone than through contact, even for the Eye. He extends his left hand. “You’ll have to forgive me. My right hand is injured, you see, and does not work the way it used to.”

Magnus stares at his hand. If he’s concerned about the explosion, he doesn’t show it. He must be showing as much fear as he is capable already. The tiniest fracture in his mask of certainty, just enough to make his hesitation clear on his face.

It’s enough for John to know he’s got a chance.

Finally, with a secret little smile, an adult indulging a child’s silly whim, Magnus steps forward.

As expected, John immediately feels worse. Stand. You just need to stand here and let Martin-

“How do I know Martin won’t attack me the second I’m in range?” Magnus has paused.

John adjusts to the pain of this new proximity. Reminds himself Magnus can’t read his mind, the Eye wouldn’t dare, it knows it would kill you- “You only have my word, I suppose. Until you get here, that is. Then even I won’t be able to resist. Stubbornness means nothing against something so great as a fear, you taught me that.”

Magnus looks up from John’s hand, into his eyes, a slow, deliberate blink. “It really is amazing, John. You’ve surpassed even my hopes for you. To exert power over an entity is truly-”

Another distant explosion goes off.

“You’re wasting your time,” John says, casually.

“Perhaps. But so are you. And what about Basira? I thought she was still tied to the Eye. To me. What will happen to her?”

“You as good as admitted that was a bluff.”

“Maybe, but you can’t Know anymore.” Magnus smiles.

“Basira’s smart. She’ll have figured something out by now.”

“Such confidence,” Magnus says. “My, my, John. You’ve really come into your own, haven’t you? Embraced your power, insistent though you may be that you’ve rejected it.” He takes another step.

John can’t help his intake of breath. He can barely see for the pain.

Magnus’s smile widens. “I’ll need your word, Martin, that you won’t do anything.” He’s still staring at John.

Martin turns to John, who pulls his eyes from Magnus. He forces the words out. “It’s okay, Martin. You won’t try anything, will you? You’ll let me take his hand?” He tries to convey what he can through the crackling pain of Magnus’s proximity and the state the Eye has left him in.

Martin looks like he understands. “I trust you, John.”

John returns his gaze to Magnus. “Is that good enough?”

“Suppose it’ll have to be. We’re on a ticking clock, after all.”

Another distant explosion underscores his point.

Magnus steps forward once. Twice. And then he is in front of John, left hand raised.

Martin is the only thing keeping him upright, hand steady on his right shoulder.

“Wish I could promise this wouldn’t hurt. You know, I don’t relish your pain, John. But it’s for the greater good. You’ll See.”

John takes his hand before either of them can change their minds.

The pain is excruciating, of course. Almost as bad as the Eye ripping him apart from the inside. And Magnus can See like this. See that John was telling the truth. See that John has no intention of going back. John feels Magnus’s hand relax slightly. Grip still firm, but some of the tension gone from it. He can See their plan. Its failure. John’s recent fight with the Eye. John feels, rather than hears, his delighted laugh, then, “A distraction? You really thought a few fires would stop me? This isn’t the Unknowing, John. It’s so much more. Can’t you See? I know, I know, you resist, but just Look-”

Martin’s hand goes, and John falls to his knees, Magnus’s hand still in his. Something is happening; Magnus’s grip is loosening, so John squeezes, digs his nails into brittle flesh. Time, Martin needs time, and keeping Magnus here might-

“Really, now.” Magnus wrenches his hand away, and Martin yells, and-

John forces his eyes open. He’s on the ground, in Martin’s lap, actually, and Magnus is a foot away, still agonizingly close. He’s got his gun leveled at John. “I thought you promised, Martin.”

“I promised I’d let you take his hand. Nothing more.”

Magnus laughs. “No matter. I believe we’re at an impasse.”

“You don’t want me dead,” John grates out.

“Not especially.” Magnus swings the gun to aim at Martin.

“What good will that do?” Martin asks. “Sure, I’m a threat, but you know he’ll just tear himself apart resisting, and then all your work will be for nothing.”

Magnus sighs, shuts his eyes, brings his left hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, boys. I don’t know what you expect me to do.” He drops his hand, looks at John. “This could be so much easier. He can live. Be a demigod, even, in our new world.”

John meets his gaze. “How many times do I have to tell you no?”

“As many as you like. But I kill him, you live, you die, that doesn’t matter to me. Your plan’s failed. I would so like it to be you, John. Really. You have so much promise. You’d do so well, Archivist. Don’t make me choose another. Don’t make all those deaths for nothing. Tim, Sasha, Gertrude, Gerry. What have they all died for, if in the end you die, too?”

John shuts his eyes. Sighs. He didn’t want to have to do this. To risk so much. To let the Eye in again, when he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to do anything but get himself killed fighting it. Even so. It’s their only chance now. He turns to Martin. “Don’t forget me.”

“Never,” Martin says, and he’s already crying, hand coming up to cup John’s cheek. “Any chance I can get you to stay?”

John smiles. “I’m afraid not.” He tries to tell Martin I’ll do this, I can do this, it’ll be fine. Because even if John can’t win, somehow, at least Martin will be alive. At least one of them will have a chance.

There’s too much that could go wrong. There always is. But maybe… “Promise me,” John says, turning to Magnus. “Take my hand again and promise me. Swear it true, with the Eye watching. And I’ll read it. I’ll read your statement. I take it you have another copy?”

“I do upstairs. We’ll have to escort Martin out of the building first.”

“Whatever you like.”

Magnus crouches down, still pointing the gun at Martin, and extends his left hand. “Glad we could come to an agreement.”

John can’t help the spasm of pain as he takes it.

“I, Jonah Magnus, swear in Sight of the Eye that once you have joined us, I will not harm Martin Blackwood.”

John yanks his hand back.

Magnus tsks and rises. “Come on then.”

John smiles. “No need. I’ll be able to See it from here.” He turns to Martin. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Martin says, taking one of John’s hands in both of his.

Before Magnus can protest, John closes his eyes and reaches for the water.

It isn’t far. For as much as he fought before, for as vehemently as he denied it, the Eye is still close.

“Archivist.”

“Show me his office.”

John is standing in it. There is only one thing left on the desk. The statement. Handwriting just as precise. Between one blink and the next a tape recorder appears, already recording, on the corner of the desk.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, the Archivist…”

Magnus is laughing. John can feel him in the room, gazing on in rapture, even as they remain in the tunnels, John slumped unconscious against Martin, Magnus backing away and taking the gun with him. Martin is stroking his hair, saying, “Please, please, oh please, John, come back to me, I know you can, please…”

“… regarding the Watcher’s Crown Ritual. Statement taken direct from subject, May seventh, two-thousand and nineteen, in situ.”

Martin smooths back his hair, kisses his temple, and sets him gently on the ground. Magnus lets out one more laugh, short, at the sight of Martin rising. He takes it as defeat, John Knows; he thinks he’s won, thinks Martin is leaving.

“Statement begins.

“I never wanted to be the Archivist, you know. Sure I was glad for the promotion, but when it came down to it nothing short of threatening the love of my life could get me back here. And you’ve let him live, after all, so I…” John reaches for the statement.

But Magnus isn’t watching nearly so hungrily anymore. He’s faded almost to nothing, retreated to his stolen body as he fights Martin for the gun. Because Martin didn’t leave. John doesn’t know how Martin got across the room so fast, or whether he can overpower an avatar of the Eye.

He pulls his hand back, expecting resistance and meeting none, only to try and fail to leave the room. He’s trapped, too weak to return to his body, pinned by the Eye’s scrutiny and the specter of Magnus looming behind him.

The tape recorder is still running.

John turns. “Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this fearful thing and See-”

Martin is losing, John Knows, not yet overpowered but barely managing to keep Magnus from swinging the cold hard metal into his skull, or worse, shooting him. Magnus changes tacks, rises up only to slam down again, cracking Martin’s head against the floor. He is breathing, he is alive, but the Eye’s irritation at Magnus going back on his word and putting everything at risk is not enough to save Martin. It Knows John is trapped now. So John speaks again, and Magnus falters, his figure in the office becoming more solid, more of his energy focused on John and less on Martin, until the panic begins to register, because John’s body may be weak but here Magnus cannot stop him-

“-See how it fears powerlessness, how it fears its precious Sight may be rescinded or corrupted, all knowledge proven uncertain or destroyed, how it fears there is too much to ever Know, fears being hunted by those who would see it ruined, how it fears a world with no one who can be Known, no one left to Know, how it fears its own end, through death or destruction, how it fears its flesh may yet fail, that it will be crushed under the weight of so much, how it fears being cast into the dark, unable to See, or of all that Sight coming to nothing because it is, above all, abandoned by all friends, all followers, all allies, and even its god.”

There is a burst of static as the tape recorder behind him explodes; John can smell the burning plastic; Magnus is screaming but no sound is coming out, Elias’s body writhing on the floor of the tunnel and finally, finally, going still as Magnus opens his eyes.

John watches the onset of madness. Screaming, crying, pleading for Sight.

In that state it is easy for Martin to pin his arms, to wrench the gun from his grip and aim it at his chest.

Magnus goes still. Panting. Staring up at Martin.

Martin makes a slight adjustment and shoots him in the head.

He sets the gun on the floor and returns to John, pulling his head into his lap. “It’s over, John. It’s alright. You can come back.”

John tries.

He can’t.

The statement sings behind him. It crackles with energy, with power, with truth, and it is all John can do not to turn back to it.

Except there is no way out.

Martin has a litany going, “safe now, perfectly safe, he’s gone, you can come back to me,” and John wants to but no matter how much he wants he remains in Elias’s office- in Elias’s office-

And the door is behind him.

But so is the statement.

John’s voice seems too loud in the empty room, but he barely manages to hear it over the damned statement. “You’ve won. It’s over. You can leave now.”

No. The door is behind him. He has to turn to leave. Turn towards the statement.

“You will turn around and walk past the desk and out the door and go down into the tunnels and be with Martin again.”

It is so hard, to turn. Because he’s never really had that faith in himself. If he did he’d have gotten out of this a long time ago. Whether Melanie’s way or Martin’s, didn’t matter.

But he has to do it now.

“Turn around.”

John listens to himself. He keeps his back to the desk as long as he can, but then it’s in view and it’s glowing, it’s-

“Walk to the door.”

His feet are so heavy. How can they be, when he isn’t even in a body? None of it makes sense, he wants it to be over, to go home, to be safe again, only the page is bright, shining, this could be the last time you feel this, ever-

“No.”

He manages to pass it. The light flickers in the corners of his vision anyway.

John lifts a leaden arm, grips the door handle. It turns with no resistance, swings inward, and then he is crossing the threshold, pulling it shut behind-

John collapses. He can still feel it through the door. Only he’s done this. He’s done this much. Even if it makes no sense for him to be so tired. Even if he has to crawl to the staircase.

The stairs take a very long time. At every landing he tries to stand, falls, and stops a moment to rest. It is easier, now there’s more distance between him and the statement. Never mind he can See it through the walls. Never mind he can feel the Eye follow each and every step, no, not follow, pull, it is dragging him, willing him to turn around, and he is so _tired_ -

“-know you’re in there, come on, please? You’re breathing, John. You’re still breathing, come on. I need to know you’re here. I need to know you’re here or else I can’t-” Martin is speaking through sobs, and his voice fades in and out, but he’s there. He’s there, waiting.

John’s anchor.

He falls down the last flight of stairs. An improvement, really, because for as impossible as it feels to move afterwards at least it saved him some time.

By the time he’s made it down the trapdoor he can barely crawl. That’s okay. Martin’s voice is louder. “-love you, John, come on, you can do this, I know you can do this-”

In each doorway he claws the edges, attempting to pull himself up. It doesn’t really work. The Eye is too heavy. Except then he’s inching around the corner, to the room where Martin is, and-

“John!”

He smiles before he remembers where his eyes are. “Martin.” Oh, there. There he is.

“Hi.”

“You have a concussion.”

“You’ve got twelve.”

John laughs once and blacks out.


	9. June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for hospital and John cracking jokes about how badly he's hurt, because of course he does

They live.

All three of them do. Or four, because Martin got off with a headache and doesn’t need to be admitted to the hospital at all. Daisy is out of the ICU by the time John and Basira are sent into it, and Basira only spends a couple days there, anyway. It’s John who’s gotten the worst of it, as weak and malnourished and aching as he was the first time, only short of any broken bones. Instead he’s got internal bleeding, so bad, in fact, that the doctors are amazed he’s still alive when they bring him in, and a few transfusions later he can sit up but still looks like a corpse.

Basira laughed when he told her the extent of the damage. He rolled his eyes and said of course he’d be more damaged than Daisy, he fell down the stairs. It is only half-true, but the hospital staff have long since given up trying to get the truth out of him.

The arthritis is bad enough to make him feel every breath. No broken bones, maybe, but plenty broken anyway, like he’d endured unnatural amounts of pressure, or-

“Like I’ve been hit by a bus?”

“Well, strictly speaking, yes.” The nurse, Megan, does not look too amused by his analogy. She’s one of the few hospital employees that counts as sectioned, technically, so whenever she’s on duty they have her check on John. She’s the only one who has the faintest clue what’s happened to him. He isn’t in the ICU anymore, but he’s been in the hospital a month, and despite his gallows humor Megan seems to like him. “Don’t puncture anything while I’m gone, alright? I have to do my rounds.”

“D’you mean internally or my fluids?”

But she is already leaving, waving a hand at his ridiculous response as he goes.

And then Martin’s there. “Hello you.”

“Oh.” John is beaming. “Is it visiting hours already?”

“Megan and I made a deal, actually. Megan and Basira and I. I can’t kick Basira out halfway through but I get to come early.” He is carrying a bouquet of flowers. After striding up to the bed and leaning to kiss John on the cheek (at which John makes a noise of annoyance, because he wants _more_ ), Martin rounds the foot of the bed to swap the new flowers with the old ones. The vase has been on John’s bedside table since he awoke from his brief medically-assisted coma, and Martin visits every day and brings flowers about every three or four.

“Come back.”

“I’m less than a foot from- oh, come now,” Martin protests, but he lets John drag him close, hook an arm around the back of his neck to pull him into a proper kiss. Martin smiles when they break away. “Better?”

“I suppose,” John says, and releases all but his hand so Martin can get comfortable. “How are things?”

“Alright. Daisy’s thrown herself into the HR job, and about half the people we had on before are coming over. Strangely enough you inherited the building-”

“Oh my god are you serious?”

Martin smiled. “Sad, right?”

“I’m signing it over to you, or Rosie, or someone, I don’t- yes, actually. Wait, I think I know, but just to be clear-”

“Lukas owned it, Bouchard inherited, then... yeah.” Martin grimaced apologetically.

“You’d think he’d have had time to change his will. We were away, what, seven months?”

“About. I’ll call a lawyer tomorrow and we’ll work on it.”

“Never met someone so... eugh.”

“Who are we talking about?” Basira has appeared in the doorway.

“You’re cheating!” Martin says.

“I’m not, I’ll only be a minute,” she says, and comes to pull up a chair of her own. “But if I had to guess, I'd say Magnus?”

“However did you know?” John deadpans.

“Because the property transfer’s kind of important news. You know you’re technically rich, now, right?”

“Rosie’s about to be technically rich. I want nothing to do with the place, I want no one directly associated with me to have anything to do with it, if I have kids I don’t want them to set eyes on the building-”

“Point taken,” Basira says. “How are you?”

“Two days away from losing my mind.”

“Good thing you get out in two days then,” she counters.

“Yes,” John says, unable to help from gazing lovingly at Martin.

“I cannot wait for this to stop,” Basira declares, leaning back in her seat. “It’s getting ridiculous.”

“You were the one who agreed to- y- ugh!” Martin says.

“Yeah, but you know me.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll try not to be, what was it-” John thinks back to the week before and smiles, “-the human embodiment of a maple tree?”

“That’s the one. And so long as you’re trying, suppose that’s all I can ask for. If I’m being honest I never really expected it to improve, more just one of you would leave the Institute and then I’d only have to deal with the secondhand sappiness.”

“Which is exactly what happened,” Martin points out, “so kudos for that one.”

Basira shrugs. “Woman of many talents.”

“You _did_ survive a fight with the Eye,” John says.

“Yes, right, but you survived, what, twelve or something? And I didn’t kill Magnus.”

“I didn’t kill him either, technically,” counters John.

“Oh, enough of that. Dead’s dead,” Martin says firmly.

The silence hangs for a moment anyway.

“He was just an avatar,” Basira finally says. “Nothing more, in the end. No stronger, really, than any of us, if we wanted to be. No stronger than any of us were, when it came down to it. Sometimes it feels ridiculous, how all of it just boils down to...”

“Things we have no hope of understanding?” offers John.

“I don’t mind that so much. It’s more... I mean, really, our greatest enemy ouroborosed himself? Seriously? Seems a bit cliché. Though I suppose that’s in keeping with the theme of things being more disappointing in real life than they are in stories.”

“I don’t think ‘disappointing’ is exactly-”

“Yes, yes, Martin, you know what she means,” John says.

Martin gives him a long-suffering look.

“Oh, hush, you love me.”

“Against all odds,” Martin says, beaming.

“Alright. I think I’ve been here long enough,” Basira declares, standing. “When are they letting you out again?”

“Two days,” John says. “I can go back to stealing Martin’s jumpers in two days.”

“You’re wearing one right now!” Martin says.

“Yes, and in two days I’ll be able to wear any one I want, preferably ones you’ve just worn, because the smell wears off too soon in this damned antiseptic environment.”

Basira raises her eyebrows. “Okay, yep, leaving now, feel better John, all that jazz, goodbye.” She goes.

John raises Martin’s hand to his lips.

“You know, you didn’t have to let her leave,” Martin reasons.

“Oh, she’d had enough of me, and you know she’ll see plenty more once you’ve all got time to leave the office at weekends.”

John gets out of the hospital a day early, as a treat, and does a double take when he walks into his (and Martin’s, now) kitchen and sees that, according to the calendar on the fridge, it is, indeed, the 3rd of June.

“I know,” Martin says, glancing over his shoulder. “Got to start planning our anniversary now.”

“Hey,” John rounds on him, “No, sorry, it’s not an anniversary, the second you’re done at the institute we’re taking a proper holiday-”

Martin raises his hands in surrender, smiling. “Alright, alright, point taken.”

“How are you liking the flat?”

“Honestly, John, it’s... kind of sad.”

John sighs and yanks Martin closer in lieu of an eye-roll. “You could’ve done what you wanted, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Not going to put all that effort in- without you, I might add- only for it to come to nothing once you find a place you like better.”

“What makes you think I’ll find a place I like-” Martin squeezes, so John relents, “-okay, alright, point taken.”

They just stay like that for a few minutes.

Then John pulls back, to look up at him, to say, “Martin, I- I’m done.”

“I know,” Martin says, smiling sadly.

“But you’re not.”

“No.” Martin takes a breath. “Can you live with that?”

“Of course I can,” John says, and is holding him close again. “God knows I don’t want to, but I- of course I can. Martin, it’s _you_.”

Martin lets out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You sure?”

“Shut up and let me love you.”

“But I-” Martin pulls away to look at him. “You’ll never be safe again.”

John laughs. Because he’d accepted that a month ago, in this very flat, and then again in the tunnels, and again in the office, and- “Wasn’t ever going to be.”

“Yes, but it… I’ll never be safe again, either.”

Not fair, John thinks, even if it’s a valid argument. And, anyway, “You will if I can help it. When I can help it.”

“But John, you can’t-”

“Martin, I can’t quit. Or, I could try, but we’ve only seen two people do it. Technically I’m still aligned with the Eye. And I’m more than okay with that if it means that every once in a while, I can follow you. Because I’m still your anchor, and you’re still mine. And I’m not losing you.”

“Okay.” Martin pulls him close. “But we’re going to need new boundaries for the safe word.”

“Martin,” John whines.

“No, I’m serious. If we’re going to maintain an unhealthy level of codependency forever, we’re going to do it right. And, now that the world isn’t ending anytime soon that we know of, that includes a renegotiation of-”

“You’re trying to prevent one of us from dying to save the other one.”

“I’m trying to prevent one of us from making a reckless decision to sacrifice ourselves in case it seems like the only viable-”

“You know, you can just say you’re talking about me. We both know you’d never be stupid enough to do something like that without thinking it through. And then, how can I argue? I’m still here, Martin.” John tightens his arms. “I don’t want to lose you and I’ll do everything I can not to, but I’m still here. I know the risks. I used to be the one taking most of them.”

Martin presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I still intend not to be doing it for much longer. I’m not- I mean I don’t plan to go _looking_ for danger-”

“That’s exactly what you plan on doing, but that’s okay. We’ll talk about it.”

“We are talking about it, John.”

“Yes, yes, but- it’s more than one lifetime’s work, Martin, and in case you hadn’t noticed I’ve started to like the idea of dying of old age instead of monster attack, so-”

“Well I wouldn’t- I would never- you know I wouldn’t artificially extend my life to-”

“Maybe not, but you would sacrifice it because you’re too noble to delegate life-threatening responsibilities to anyone other than yourself.”

Martin sighs. “You know what? Now is not the time to be having this discussion. Yellow.”

“Forget a pre-nup, we’re going to have a retirement plan, a contractual retirement plan, built into the vows or someth-”

“Red, John.”

“Okay.”

“Just want to hold you right now.”

“Yeah.”

It’s good to be home.

John is not retired, necessarily.

He is sleeping, every night, and knitting when his hands will let him, and putting too many hours each day into their search for a house. For as much as they both meant what they said on the plane, they have to stay in London, for now if not forever, and John knows he’ll be content so long as Martin’s home safe each night.

Which he is, for the most part. And when he isn’t he calls first, or tells John before he leaves, and then calls later anyway, and John isn’t sure what he did to deserve this man but he is not going to waste a second of their time together.

“Poetry?” Martin has taken to asking this every time he thinks John is thinking about him.

John huffs, even though Martin is always right. “What about this horrid scarf looks poetic to you, exactly?”

“You were giving me a look,” Martin says.

“I am watching my needles-”

“You’re not. You keep looking at me.”

John glances up from his work to see Martin’s expression is all fondness. He blushes and doesn’t look away.

“I don’t mind,” Martin says. “Do it to you all the time.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

John shows up fashionably late to the barbecue with the tray of cookies Martin made and what he hopes are delicious little miniature cheesecakes. He couldn’t actually taste one cooked because he broke too many of the crusts, but John thinks it tasted fine straight out of the bowl, and that’s got to be a good sign.

“John!”

“Love of my life!”

Martin gives him a look that is both happy and mockingly doubtful, but when John stands on his toes to kiss him on the cheek he smiles anyway. “Here, let me help. What did you make?”

“Cheesecakes. Should put them on ice and they’ll be fine. Do we have ice?”

“We do. It is right over there by the- hang on, is that a new shirt?”

John completely ignores the question as he places the cheesecakes on the dessert table, keeping his back to Martin.

“John, what does your shirt say?”

“Nothing.” John scoops some ice onto the spare tray and sets the cheesecakes on top of it. “Don’t worry about it.”

“John.”

John sighs. “It says ‘down with cis.’”

Martin comes up behind him, snaking his arms around John’s waist. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Martin laughs and places a kiss on the top of his head. “Don’t be sorry, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. And you know I’m joking.”

John rolls his eyes even though Martin probably can’t see it from this angle. “Green.”

“Yeah, okay. Good.” Martin tightens his arms for a second and pulls away. “Do you want to meet the little yous?”

“Are they smarter than me?”

“Every one.”

“Thank god for that. Alright, where are they?”

“Well, two of them are vaping, which I know is kind of a point against them, but hear me out. Emmett switched from smoking and is doing great and Risa says it helps with her anxiety, so please don’t say anything.”

John places a reassuring hand on Martin’s shoulder blade as they get within earshot of the four new employees- or maybe volunteers is a better word. “Hello.”

Four twenty-somethings are camped under a tree, sprawled in various states of comfort in the grass. There is a picnic blanket under some of their limbs, but the improbable way all of them are sitting means none of them manages to get more than halfway on it.

“So you’re John, then?” this from one of the two vapers, Risa, he guesses, from what Martin’s told him. She’s leaning back on one arm and squinting at him.

“Yes.”

She points to her three companions in turn. “Corin, Emmett, and Wensleydale.”

“It’s good to finally meet you. Martin’s told me so much about-”

Corin raises a hand. “Save it. Same goes for you, yeah? Emmett’s one boring weekend away from writing a predictive algorithm for your responses.”

“Hang on, as in you know my responses from more than hearsay, meaning you’ve heard tapes, meaning…” John blinks. “Hang on, do the computers _work now_?”

“Yeah,” Wensleydale says. “Thought that’d be sort of obvious given that one brings his laptop home every day even though he won’t let anyone else bring them out of the building,” this said with a nod to Martin.

John looks askance at his husband.

“I- er- the thing about that, John, is-”

“That you told me everyone did it?”

“I also told you my favorite color’s yellow, so,” and Martin shrugs.

The traffic light words are just for them, and usually don’t even come up in normal conversation, and John is absolutely not going to get into an argument with Martin in front of his four new trainees even if he wants to, so he only says, “Guess I got you back with the shirt anyway.”

“Good shirt,” Corin says.

“Miles cooler than anything we’ve seen Martin wear,” Risa agrees. She is the only one with an American accent. The rest sound vaguely local, or more likely multilingual but very well-practiced and educated in places that use ‘s’ instead of ‘z.’

“Glad it meets with your seal of approval.”

“Oh, tenfold.” Risa takes a drag from the vape pen, and John knows she is challenging him somehow.

He doesn’t know if he’ll meet expectations, but he certainly isn’t going to misrepresent himself to try. “What have you learned so far?”

“He’s got us memorizing the history of our predecessors,” Corin says. “Shame, really. Letting our collective street fighting skills molder on the shelf.”

“When have you been in a street fight?” Emmett asks.

“Leave them alone, will you? And I’m sure the answer is more times than you have, anyway,” Risa hits the vape again.

Corin turns to Emmett. “Six,” they say. “I’ve been in six street fights.”

Emmett looks at a loss. He hits his own vape pen instead of replying.

“Where were those when I quit smoking?” John asks.

“Still being marketed as e-cigarettes and not having cartridges that are churro flavored,” offers Risa. “Really tapped in on a forgotten market.”

“Aren’t those illegal for under-eighteens?” John asks.

Risa shrugs.

“I think so,” Wensleydale says. “But we’re all well over eighteen, so-”

“Twenty-two,” Emmett says, and then coughs out a large cloud of smoke. “I am twenty-two.”

“I made them finish school before they came on,” Martin says. “Not because I believe in it, but because if they didn’t they’d have to lie on their CVs even more than I did and I’d rather not put them in that predicament.”

“I thought you said this was a life thing? Why do you keep talking like we haven’t just signed on for indefinite active service?” Corin asks.

“Because you haven’t. You can leave whenever you want, and we certainly aren’t going to trick you into binding yourself to one of the fears. Well, you’ll probably be Eye-aligned by the end of the year, but you’ve got plenty of time to back out before then if you like.”

John turns to Martin, eyebrows raised. “How much have you told them?”

Martin claps him on the shoulder. “Knowledge is power, John.” Then he just walks away.

John stares after him.

“Is he this ridiculous at home?” Emmett asks.

“Oh, no. He’s much worse.” John takes a seat half-on, half-off the blanket. “You should have seen him when we were doing the nursery. I was losing my mind and he just followed me around putting everything right when I fucked it up.”

“How did you get put in charge in the first place?” Risa asks.

“The stupid ones are the easiest to control, Risa, come on,” John says.

“No, no, you’re not stupid. An idiot, maybe, but you’re definitely not stupid,” Corin insists. “I mean, you figured out the Leitner issue well in advance, didn’t you? You have your moments.”

“Have you gotten all the way through Peter Lukas yet?”

“He won’t tell us about that. He said we have to make you tell us,” Wensleydale gives John a pointed look.

John glances behind him to see Martin chatting with Rosie, but watching the blanket. He gives John a thumbs up and an encouraging nod.

John sighs and turns back to the blanket. “I bet he undersold the Eye thing, too, didn’t he?”

“Sorry, which Eye thing?” Emmett asks.

“The getting rid of it thing. Any of the times.”

“Nope,” Emmett says. “Don’t think he did.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Well, first off, he said that one was all you, which I’m willing to bet based on your face alone was something of an exaggeration,” Risa begins. “Second, he made a big deal out of the metaphysical fight at the end, which, not gonna lie, is pretty badass on your part, way to go. Then there was all that nerd stuff, which we absolutely loved…”

John turns to Martin again as Risa continues to tell a very biased version of the story.

Martin winks at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. I needed a happy ending, and apparently so did all of you. Thank you so much for all the love, and to my fantastic betas from the Rusty Quill Discord. It'll be a hell of a finale, but I can honestly say I wouldn't rather have done it with any other group of fans.


End file.
